


Hoodlum

by wheel_pen



Series: Wayland and Susannah [5]
Category: Hoodlum, Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cosmic Partners (wheel_pen), F/M, Tim Roth movie roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gangster Dutch Schultz has a lot of eccentricities, number one being his girlfriend Susannah and her passion for collecting orphan girls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains unhealthy relationships, gangster violence, poor treatment of children, foul language, and era-typical racism.

They didn’t sleep, really, but sometimes it was pleasant to lie quietly, relatively still, and relax. It was the middle of the night and they were _supposed_ to be asleep anyway; even with the loud charade they liked to put on for the others, it would be unrealistic for them to keep up all night, with no breaks. At least, not _every_ night.

Susannah made a noise of approval as Dutch stroked his hand down her side. “Mmmm… So, have you had a lot of girlfriends here?” she asked curiously.

He smirked behind her. “Girlfriends? You tryin’ to be f‑‑‑‑n’ polite or what? No, no _girlfriends_.”

“Well, girls you’ve f‑‑‑‑d, then,” Susannah clarified bluntly, since he was going to be crude about it.

“Oh, _those_ ,” Dutch replied, as though he just now took her meaning. “There’s been a lotta those, yeah,” he agreed wolfishly. “I been through a _lot_ of Lucky’s chorus girls,” he went on. “Usually a couple at a time, so’s one can rest while I’m workin’ the other one.”

Susannah giggled, thinking of the starstruck chorus girls who no doubt thought a night with a gangster was somehow a ticket to fame and fortune. “Chorus girls have good conditioning, I expect,” she commented.

Dutch nibbled her shoulder and snickered. “Yeah, well, usually they get the next day off. Sometimes two or three days. Fortunately there’s pretty high turnover in the world of chorus girls. How ‘bout you?” he asked after a moment.

“No chorus girls for me,” Susannah replied, which Dutch found amusing. “But I went through my share of boyfriends. And a few other people’s shares as well,” she added with a smirk. “Broke a fella’s ribs once,” she remembered, and Dutch burst into laughter.

“Bet _he_ was f‑‑‑‑n’ surprised,” he remarked. “What’d you do down South, anyway?”

Susannah shrugged. “Whatever I wanted, mostly. I left my parents when I was thirteen—not sure they even noticed. Traveled a lot. Earned a little money now and then.”

“No need to ask how,” Dutch teased. “I bet a lotta fellas were willin’ to pay to have you break their ribs.”

“Well, it’s nice to be able to afford a hot shower on occasion,” Susannah agreed. Not really needing to eat to survive was a great help when one was itinerant and impoverished, but other little luxuries were quite missed. “I was thinkin’ of settlin’ down with this railroad man”—no doubt some kind of wealthy executive, not a conductor—“when I saw your picture in a newspaper. ‘Dutch’ is such a funny name.”

“It’s a nickname,” he reminded her. “So’s the Schultz, you know. It’s really… Arthur Flegenheimer.” He said the name in the goofy tone he felt it deserved and they both chuckled. “Like anyone was gonna take _that_ seriously.”

***

Dutch paused at the car door a moment before climbing in. “Well, you boys brought me a little surprise!” he said approvingly.

“Welcome home,” Susannah purred, cuddling up to him in the back seat. She was wrapped in one of the luxurious fur coats Dutch had gifted her with, and a diamond necklace flashed at her throat. He could be very generous in his presents, after all, and she wanted to show that she appreciated them.

“Anything important happen while I was gone?” Dutch asked off-hand, directing his attention to the two men in the front seat and the one extremely uncomfortable man in the back, on the other side of Susannah.

“Well, there was the—“ Ritchie began, but Bub cut him off with a shake of his head.

“No, nothing important,” Bub replied.

“Good,” Dutch answered, turning his attention fully on Susannah. Unless his empire was about to collapse around him, he wasn’t too interested in business at the moment, as Bub realized. “And have you been a good girl while I’ve been gone?” Dutch asked, nibbling Susannah’s ear.

“Of course,” she answered promptly, but he had his doubts.

“How ‘bout it?” he questioned the others in the car. “She been good?” There was a slight pause. Joey, crammed into the far corner of the back seat, desperately wished he had jumped out at the station and taken a cab home. “Look at those faces,” Dutch teased Susannah. “Those faces say you been a little h—l-raiser lately.”

She was not chastened. “They feel threatened by strong women around here,” she dismissed. Ignoring that line of conversation, Susannah began checking the pockets of Dutch’s overcoat. “So where’s my present?”

“What present?”

“You said you would bring me a present!” Susannah reminded him, sounding a bit miffed.

“Oh, I get it, you just want the _present_ ,” Dutch countered, probably not serious in his exasperation. Probably. “ ‘Gimme my f----n’ presents!’ Nice. That’s real appealin’. How ‘bout I dump you on your a-s on the street and let you _walk_ home? How’s that for a present?”

Susannah pouted. “If you kick me out you won’t get _your_ present,” she warned him.

Dutch grinned suddenly. “You brought _me_ a present?”

“Well,” she hedged slyly, “it’s more like… what I _didn’t_ bring.” And she parted the fur coat just enough that Dutch could see she wasn’t wearing anything under it. Except diamonds, of course.

Dutch seemed to find this acceptably welcoming as he pulled her onto his lap. “You are _definitely_ not a good girl,” he approved.

***

“Go see what the f—k that noise is,” Dutch snapped at Bub. “I am tryin’ to f----n’ concentrate here.” Noise was not unusual on the warehouse floor, where dozens of workers were taking numbers, counting money, and making phone calls. But Dutch tended to be sensitive to minor variations in the general din, even insulated in his upstairs office, and Bub stood to check it out.

The noise escalated outside of Dutch’s door and seemed to include a familiar voice. Dutch swore and Bub sat back down.

“Take your f----n’ hands off me, you f----n’ mongrel b-----d!” Susannah demanded as the door opened to admit her and one of Dutch’s minions. “You lousy f----n’—“

“Let her go,” Dutch insisted. “Go on, go away.” He gave Susannah a severe look. “What the f—k are you doin’ here? Are you f----n’ stupid, comin’ down here? This ain’t a nice neighborhood, you know.”

Susannah huffed and straightened her dress where it had been marginally wrinkled by her dramatic entrance. “Yeah, well, I got somethin’ important to say to you.”

Dutch rolled his eyes. “Well? F----n’ out with it, then.” So Susannah picked a glass up from the sideboard and hurled it at him. “What the—“ Dutch exclaimed, barely ducking in time. In response she picked up another glass. Dutch and Bub wasted no time diving behind Dutch’s heavy desk as glass continued to smash in their general direction. “You f----n’—What the f—k is your problem?!” Dutch shouted over the noise.

“You _know_ what my f----n’ problem is, you g-----n son of a—“

“I have no idea!” Dutch insisted. “I have no idea,” he repeated to Bub. Bub didn’t, either, so he said nothing. “She’s spunky, though, ain’t she?” Dutch added with a grin. “Is your problem mental?” he yelled back at Susannah rudely. “Is your problem that you’re f----n’ _insane_?!”

“No, you inconsiderate, lazy, _shriveled_ f----n’—“

Dutch snickered. “She is _so_ funny,” he commented, with apparent sincerity. It took them both a second to realize the shattering had stopped. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You run outta stuff to throw? We can get you some more!”

There was no answer for a beat, then a slightly strangled, “Dutch!”

Immediately he sprang out from behind the desk, gun drawn and pointed on the man who was restraining Susannah. “Get your f----n’ hands off her!” he ordered coldly as Bub covered him. Suddenly Dutch frowned. “Don’t I know you?”

“He works for Lucky,” Bub supplied, neither of them lowering their weapons at this realization.

“Oh really,” Dutch replied with great curiosity.

“I heard a commotion,” came a smooth voice from the doorway. “I thought you might need assistance.” Lucky nodded at his man to let Susannah go; as soon as she was free she gave her former captor a slap across the face.

Dutch grabbed her arm and yanked her over to his side, finally holstering his weapon. “Sit down and shut up before I f----n’ smack _you_ ,” he ordered, shoving her into his desk chair. She crossed her arms over her chest tightly and gave him a poisonous look. “Oh, Lucky, this is Susannah,” Dutch introduced off-hand. “Susannah, this is Mr. Lucky Luciano. Be nice.” She turned the back of the chair to them rudely. “Well, that _was_ nice,” Dutch decided, “considerin’ what she coulda said to you.” Lucky could see that. “Well what are you slummin’ down here for?” Dutch went on conversationally. “Hey, I’d offer you a drink but, uh, I don’t seem to have any more glasses.”

***

The fire in the hearth crackled. Ritchie sniffed once. Bub turned a page in the newspaper he was reading. Joey looked longingly at the radio he wasn’t supposed to turn on this time of night. Wouldn’t want to disturb anyone in the house, after all. They all tried to ignore the barely muffled shouting coming from the top of the house. It consisted of a lot of ‘f—ks’ and its variations, with the occasional ‘b---h’ and ‘kike’ thrown in, along with longer but equally unsavory phrases. Every once in a while, there would be a crash, or a thump that rattled the ceiling lamp in the office. They had long since learned not to investigate such sounds.

Bub kept his thoughts on this matter, as well as on many others, to himself. Dutch’s recent entanglement with this Susannah woman made several of his underlings nervous—she was as volatile and demanding as he could be sometimes, but she existed in a nebulous state of unclear authority. Bub made it a point to always do what she wanted, unless Dutch directly countermanded it. The boss had never had a lady friend before—one who’d stuck around more than a single night, that is—and no one knew what to expect. The fellas who worked for other bosses—like Luciano or Callabari—looked at them blankly when they complained: a “businessman’s” personal and professional lives being _that_ intertwined? It was so gauche, so common. But then again, that was Dutch. Bub had known him since he was a brash nineteen-year-old kid running guns from borough to borough, and he was _all_ gauche and _all_ common. And a h—l of a lot savvier than most people realized.

Which was one reason Bub wasn’t buying whatever performance Dutch and Susannah were putting on—Bub had seen Dutch do a lot of brutal things over the years, things that had made his reputation as a dangerous and possibly unhinged man, but never once had Bub actually seen him lose his temper. Oh, sometimes he _looked_ like he did, if you weren’t paying close attention, but Bub _always_ paid close attention. He didn’t know what was really going on with the two of them; but Dutch had never been particularly violent towards women and Bub didn’t think he would start now. So, despite the insults and the broken dishes and the occasional black eye one of them sported, his gut feeling was that this was _not_ any kind of typical rough relationship.

Of course, that didn’t mean he had any clue about what it was instead.

“I heard last week, DiGiorgno killed this whore over in Greenville,” Joey said. Apropos of nothing, of course. “Yeah, this guy who works for him was tellin’ me how he had to help clean up the scene, dump her body in the lake. Be a big mess if the papers ever got wind of it.”

“Guess he shoulda kept his mouth shut, then,” Bub observed, not looking up from his reading.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess,” Joey agreed slowly, glancing up at the ceiling nervously. “Do you think that—“

Joey talked too much, in Bub’s opinion. But this time that turned out to be useful, because the gunshot wasn’t as startling as it would have been in a silent room. They were all on their feet immediately, guns drawn.

“Upstairs?” Ritchie confirmed, and Bub nodded. The arguing couple had gone silent—dead silent. Bub’s first thought was that whatever little game Dutch was playing had gone horribly wrong.

“Stay down here and watch the door,” he told Joey, who was young enough to readily obey. He and Ritchie climbed the dark, narrow stairs quickly, uncertain what to expect at the top. Dutch had been badly injured before and had always bounced back, amazingly; so if there was a body bleeding out on the floor, Bub felt it more likely to be the woman’s. Maybe Joey’s chatter had been prescient after all.

The door to Dutch’s bedroom wasn’t locked and Bub pushed it open slowly, first seeing Susannah standing by the couch, pale and horrified. He shoved the door open the rest of the way and, to his surprise, felt slightly relieved when he saw Dutch standing there—albeit clutching a bloody sleeve. Susannah wasn’t holding a gun, so Bub glanced around the room for a third party. “Dutch,” he finally said.

“F----n’—f—k—it’s—no, it’s—fine,” Dutch claimed. “Put that f----n’ gun away! It was an accident.”

Well, ‘accident’ seemed a bit generous for people who beat up on each other _and_ left guns lying around. ‘Inevitable’ was more like it. But since Susannah looked more like she was going to throw up than make a run for it, Bub holstered his gun. “Ritchie, get the doctor,” he told the other man, entering the room.

“No!” Dutch countered. “I don’t need no f----n’ doctor. Ritchie! Just, uh, go downstairs and get me a f----n’ drink.” There were drinks available on the sideboard in the bedroom. But Ritchie wasn’t a big questioner.

Bub approached the pair slowly, his gaze darting around the scene to take in every detail. When he rounded the couch he saw the gun at Susannah’s feet where she’d dropped it. “No, honey, it’s okay—“ Dutch began, and Susannah burst into tears.

“I’m sorry!” she wailed, running to him. She was more of a hindrance than a help, though, as Bub attempted to remove Dutch’s ruined shirt. The bullet had only grazed him, it appeared, and Bub quickly began tying a scrap of Dutch’s shirt around his arm above the wound as a tourniquet.

“Sit down,” he instructed the younger man, who obeyed only when pushed. Bub took the drink Ritchie had returned with and sent him off again for medical supplies—apparently he was going to have to take care of this himself. Again.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Dutch was insisting to a distraught Susannah, who clung to him with uncharacteristic despair. “It’s okay, I’m fine, I’m—F—K! OW!”

That was Bub dabbing rubbing alcohol on the open wound. “It’s going to get worse,” he pointed out, sterilizing the needle.

“I’m sorry,” Susannah repeated, burying her face against Dutch’s leg.

He stroked the back of her hair rapidly. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s fine. Really, it’s okay…”

Joey hovered anxiously at the bottom of the stairs when Bub finally returned. “Ritchie said she _shot_ the boss!” he reported, as though Bub hadn’t been right there in the aftermath. If he was looking for further lurid details from Bub, he wasn’t going to get them.

“It’s not serious,” was all the other man would say. “He’ll be fine.”

Joey gnawed on his bottom lip. “Do you think we’ll have to take her out?” he asked, sounding dissatisfied with the prospect.

Bub shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t worry about that.” He had never heard Dutch speak to Susannah so gently before, in fact. Nor had he ever seen the woman look so genuinely upset. His guess was, she was going to be the only person ever to shoot Dutch Schultz and get away with it.


	2. Chapter 2

“—such a f----n’ baby—“

“—it was _scary_ —“

“It wasn’t scary! Ritchie, did _you_ think the movie was f----n’ scary?”

“Well, boss—“

“Who cares what the f—k Ritchie thinks!”

“Not that he thinks much, right, Ritchie?”

“Uh, right, boss.”

“ _I_ thought it was scary!”

“It was not scary. It was, like, a comedy. I laughed my a-s off!”

“It was not funny.”

“How about when—hey, Ritchie, remember the part when the guy was comin’ out of the train compartment and he was all like—raaaaaaaaahhhhhhrrrrrr!”

“Yeah, that was good, boss.”

“Raaaaaaaahhhhhhhrrrrrrr!”

“Stop it. I am gonna slap you.”

“Go ahead. I’ll slap you back. Maybe we should way ‘til we get home, though. You know how uncomfortable the boys get when we start doin’ that in the back seat.”

“Oh, you’re very funny. Just like Boris Karloff.”

“Raaaaaaahhhhhhrrrrrrrr!”

“Shut up. Why couldn’t we have gone to see _Twentieth Century_ instead, huh?”

“ _Twentieth Century_? Why? You wanna know _why_?”

“I like Carole Lombard. She’s very funny.”

“Why didn’t we go see _Twentieth Century_? Because I paid for the f----n’ tickets, that’s why. And I wanted to see _The Black Cat_.”

“Carole Lombard is funny. _And_ pretty. It’s supposed to be good.”

“It’s a f----n’ comedy. _And_ , a romance. _And_ , a musical. Those are three genres I stay the f—k away from.”

“You just said you liked _The Black Cat_ because it was funny.”

“Well, it was funny in a different way. Not necessarily on purpose. And, okay, what the f—k is wrong with musicals?”

“Well, I was just gonna ask _you_ that.”

“No, I mean, there _is_ something wrong with them. Real people do not go around f----n’ burstin’ into song on the street. I don’t do that. Bub don’t do that. Maybe Ritchie does, though. Hey, Ritchie, you ever burst into song while you’re pluggin’ someone?”

“Um, no, boss, not so’s I noticed.”

“No one f----n’ bursts into song in real life. It ain’t realistic.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were goin’ for realism now. Maybe we shoulda gone to see _Tarzan and His Mate_ in that case. That seems plenty realistic to me.”

“Yeah, me Tarzan, you Susannah…”

“Stop! I am angry at you.”

“And I should stop… why?”

“Well, um—Never mind.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought…”

The two men in the front seat of the black Plymouth made a valiant effort to not react to anything happening in the back seat. It was a delicate balance to maintain, because of course the instant the boss should request something from them—even if it was only a mindless agreement to one of his own comments—they would have to give it immediately. Failure to respond to the boss resulted in a punishment that was far worse than merely listening uncomfortably to a few squeaks and giggles. After all, at least they weren’t in the back seat _with_ the boss and Miss Susannah. This time. Because of course Dutch Schultz didn’t let an audience get in the way of doing whatever he wanted to do.

Ritchie turned the car carefully through the darkened streets, alert for the patches of ice hiding under the slush. It also wasn’t a good idea to fishtail Dutch Schultz’s car when he was in it. Ritchie was pretty good with the cars, though, so Bub kept an eye out for any trouble of the more human kind, assessing each of the sparse passersby and glancing into the alleys as they drove past. He didn’t anticipate any trouble, but it was always the trouble you didn’t anticipate that got you in the end.

“—oh, stop, Dutch—“

“—don’t tell me to f----n’ stop—Ow!—F----n’—“

“Wait, what was that?” Susannah asked suddenly, a new tone in her voice. Bub and Ritchie straightened up slightly.

“Well, if you can’t tell what _that_ is after all this time—“ Dutch began mockingly.

“No, I mean—Pull over.”

Consternation appeared on Ritchie’s face. “Uh, boss?”

“She said pull over, f----n’ pull over,” Dutch snapped, as though it should be obvious that the man was required to follow Susannah’s every command. Which it wasn’t. Dutifully Ritchie began to pull over to the curb as Bub heightened his visual sweep of the area, as mystified as his boss apparently was. “What the f—k are we pullin’ over for?”

Susannah climbed up on her knees on the seat, peering out the back window of the car. “I thought I saw a—“ She rolled the window down, letting the icy breeze into the already chilly car. “Back there.”

“Back there _what_?” Dutch demanded. “What the—what the f—k are you doing? Don’t get—“ Susannah was already getting out of the car. “Get back in the car!” Susannah, however, had largely been immune to Dutch’s commands since day one. “I’m not f----n’ following you!” he shouted at her petulantly through the open door. “Get back in the f----n’ car! What the f—k is she doin’? Can you see her?”

Bub leaned out his own open door. “She’s headed for that corner over there, by the barber shop.”

“F----n’ barber shop?” Dutch muttered. “Susannah, you f----n’ _get back_ in this f-----n’ car or I will f----n’ hunt you down and beat you to death!” he added nastily at the top of his lungs, which the residents of the apartments above the barber shop no doubt didn’t appreciate. “I will f‑‑‑‑n’ beat you like Boris Karloff! What is this, what are you—“

Susannah climbed back into the car, something large bundled in her arms. “Okay, let’s go,” she announced. “We gotta hurry up and get home!”

“What the f—k was all that about?” Dutch insisted. “Why the f—k do we have to get home? And what the—what the f—k is _that_?”

He sounded so horrified that Bub turned to look back over the seat. “She was all by herself!” Susannah explained, completely unrepentant. “She would have frozen to death, on a night like this.”

“No, no, no, no, no! F‑‑‑‑n’ no!” Dutch replied emphatically. “Absolutely not. Go put her back.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Susannah told him shortly, fussing with the bundle. “I am not puttin’ her back on the street to freeze.”

“Well, can’t we find—a _place_ or somethin’—maybe someone was waitin’ for her,” Dutch suggested, a bit desperately. “Someone’s gonna come along lookin’ for her, and she ain’t gonna be there!”

“No one’s looking for her,” Susannah told him, steely-eyed. “She’s all by herself. Here, you hold her, you’re warmer.”

“No, I am not f‑‑‑‑n’—I am not f‑‑‑‑n’—“ But then of course he _was_ holding the bundle, as Susannah had shoved it onto his lap.

“Don’t you use vulgar language around her,” Susannah snapped at him, unpeeling some of the bundle’s layers. “There you go, honey, you just curl up right there with Dutch, and you’re gonna be just fine.”

“F—k,” Dutch said again, and this time he sounded more serious. Bub could see why—not only was there a strange little girl sitting on his lap, she was also—“Why the f—k are you pickin’ n----r girls up off the street?”

“Don’t you use that word around her,” Susannah told him sharply. “I _said_ , no vulgar language! Now just you sit still and hold her.”

“No, Susannah!” Dutch protested, nonetheless holding the girl. “Look, there’s gotta be places to take her. Not home. Other places. Bub—where’s a place to take a little—um, colored girl this time of night?”

“Colored church, maybe,” the man replied evenly, not sure what to make of this new situation. It could all go very, very badly.

Dutch seemed much relieved at this suggestion. “Of course! There you go, a colored church. Ritchie, find me a colored church,” he ordered.

“Ritchie, go on home,” Susannah countered. “We are not gonna run around some drafty old church this time of night,” she declared. “We can take her home. For one night. And have a doctor look at her.”

***

Dutch heard the front door close and Susannah thanking Bessie for her help, and he quickly left his desk to meet her. Giving up the little girl was tough on her, he knew, but he was convinced it was better this way. Their lifestyle was dangerous, and not exactly child-friendly. And with the state of medicine and sanitation in this era anyway, well, let’s just say there were lots of ways Susannah could get her heart broken going down this path. And Dutch didn’t want to see that happen. Maybe in some other time and place, when they were a respectable suburban couple and attitudes were more tolerant and overall health was better, maybe then they could consider something along these lines.

Dutch knew there wasn’t too much he could do to make Susannah feel better, but maybe the diamond necklace in his pocket and dinner at Delmonico’s would at least remind her that there were other enjoyable things in this life. He put on a sympathetic face as he met her in the hall.

“Hey, sweetie, how’d it—“ And then Dolly drifted shyly out from behind Susannah. And he could tell from Susannah’s expression that things had not exactly gone according to plan. At least not Dutch’s plan. “I see you still have your little shadow,” he observed coolly.

“Go on into the kitchen, dear, and ask Bessie to make you a snack,” Susannah told the little girl. They both watched her depart, then Susannah tried to explain herself in a low voice. “Her mother’s dead, she had some kind of fever,” she said hurriedly, “and she doesn’t have anyone else!”

“They wouldn’t take her at the church?” Dutch questioned suspiciously. Not even with the generous donation he was prepared to make?

“Well they _would_ ,” Susannah admitted, “but she wouldn’t really _belong_ to anyone, she doesn’t have any other _family_ —“

“Good thing we’re f‑‑‑‑n’ blood kin, then!” Dutch hissed.

“I wanna keep her,” she finally stated.

“I _know_ you wanna keep her,” Dutch agreed, unswayed. “But we f‑‑‑‑n’ decided we _wouldn’t_!”

“Well I changed my mind.” Dutch heaved a sigh of frustration. “I can take her out West,” Susannah offered.

“Yeah, the West is such a f‑‑‑‑n’ paradise right now,” he snorted. “It’s the f‑‑‑‑n’ Dust Bowl.”

“California,” she proposed. “A nice little farm town, where times are just hard enough that people won’t ask too many questions.”

She’d clearly been thinking about it, which bothered Dutch even more. “I don’t really want you to go,” he admitted, rubbing her arms. “I feel like I ain’t hardly had any time with you.”

Susannah smiled affectionately and leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “Last time you didn’t say _ain’t_.”

He smirked. “Yeah, well, last time you didn’t have that sexy little accent.” He slid his arms around her and pulled her close. “I don’t wanna see you get your heart broke.”

“Motherhood is all about heartbreak,” she replied. “Every day that passes, every little change, makes your heart break just a little, ‘cause someday they’re gonna be all grown up and won’t need you anymore. That’s just motherhood, Dutch.”

“That must be why only women do it,” he shot back dryly. “ ‘Cause men are too smart to get caught in that racket.”

She smirked. “So are you gonna be a gangster with a little family now? You gotta get permission from anyone for that?” she teased.

“Well fortunately everyone knows I’m a little eccentric,” Dutch assured her. “But I’m gonna blame this one on you, anyway.”

***

Dutch was trying to work on the books, but the rhythmic sound of the little girl’s shoes squeaking on the floorboards outside his office was incredibly distracting. Whenever he glanced up she was pacing back and forth, listlessly tugging on the pull-toy Susannah had gotten her. The pull-toy that squeaked. Finally he tossed his pencil aside.

“Hey, mopey.” She looked up. “Yeah, you. C’mere.” He pulled his gun out of his holster and set it on the far end of the desk, out of reach for any small, wandering fingers. Dolly trotted across the office floor immediately, pull-toy thankfully abandoned, and climbed up onto his lap. She did not, however, crack a smile. “What’s wrong with you, huh?” Dutch demanded.

“Susannah’s mad at me,” the little girl replied in a soft, sorrowful voice.

“Susannah’s mad at you?” Dutch repeated. “Well it’s about time. I knew you’d screw up sooner or later. What’s she mad at you about?”

“I broke a plate,” Dolly confessed.

“You broke a plate? Susannah breaks plates all the time,” Dutch answered dismissively. “Usually by throwin’ ‘em at my head. But she’s mad at you, huh?”

Dolly nodded. “She says I can’t go see my friend Mary Jane now.”

“Well that is very serious,” Dutch agreed thoughtfully. “Look, I gotta plan, alright? Are you listenin’?” Dolly nodded. “So you go find Susannah, and you give her a hug, and you tell her you’re sorry you broke the plate.”

“And then I ask to go see Mary Jane?” Dolly added eagerly, but Dutch shook his head.

“Nope. Do _not_ mention Mary Jane. Got it? Just a hug, and say you’re sorry, and act like that’s it,” he clarified. “I bet you anything Susannah will cave and let you go see your little friend. But you can’t bring it up yourself. Wait for her to mention it. You got it?”

“Okay,” Dolly agreed, with more hope.

“Okay. Go give it a try now.”

***

Dutch wandered out of his office as Dolly and Susannah entered the house. “Well, we had a nice little walk, didn’t we?” Susannah commented brightly, though something in her manner suggested to Dutch that it hadn’t been very nice at all. “Here, let me just take your coat.”

The little girl gave Dutch a bright smile and he stared inscrutably back, still not sure what to make of this new element in their lives. “Hello!”

“Hi,” Dutch replied, trying not to sound overtly menacing. This was difficult because usually he was trying the opposite.

“Run along to the kitchen and have Bessie make you some toast and honey,” Susannah suggested, and the little girl scampered off. Dutch glanced up, waiting for Susannah’s complaint. She turned her back towards him so he could help her with her coat. “I heard on the radio the universe is expanding,” she muttered. “So why are people’s minds so small?”

“It’s the 1930’s,” Dutch shrugged, hanging her coat up. His tone suggested she couldn’t expect much, given the era.

“It’s the 1930’s, not the 1830’s,” she countered sharply. “I’d think I could walk down the street with a colored girl and not get stared at by every single person.”

“It was probably _easier_ in the 1830’s,” Dutch suggested cheekily. “People woulda thought she was your little slave child you liked dressing up, like a doll.”

Susannah gave him a look that indicated his comment was wholly unhelpful. “Well, I can’t take her to Merivall’s for her clothes, anyway.”

“Why not?” Susannah’s look begged Dutch not to be _purposefully_ dense. “I mean, just walk in. What are they gonna do, turn you away? I’ll burn the f‑‑‑‑n’ place to the ground.”

She patted his arm, appreciative of the affectionate impulse. “Well, I don’t want to take Dolly someplace where people aren’t nice to her,” she decided. “Besides, Bessie’s cousin does wonderful work. It’s just she’s a bit slow, on accounta she’s got those kids to look after. And I have to bring her all the fabrics and notions in advance, ‘cause she can’t afford to buy ‘em herself.”

Dutch smirked. “Well, with the kinda wardrobe you’re plannin’ for this kid, we can keep her in business for a long time.”

***

“—so you and Lonzo head up to 51st and make sure that f‑‑‑‑n’ kraut is payin’ the full amount this time,” Dutch was ordering his lieutenants. “You bring back less and I’m gonna have to go down there myself, and it’s gonna be a f‑‑‑‑n’ mess. Got it?” The men gathered around the desk in his office nodded soberly. They didn’t want to have to deal with one of Dutch’s messes, if possible.

“Now _you_ two,” he went on, turning to another pair, “go to Harlem and check on the—“ The noise that had begun outside the door of Dutch’s office reached a peak of squealing, such that even he could no longer ignore it. With a few choice descriptive words Dutch pulled out his gun, causing his lieutenants to draw back instinctively, then laid it on top of his desk and marched towards the door. Bub slid it open for him, revealing Susannah and a distressed Dolly. “What the f—k is goin’ on?!” Dutch snapped. “I am tryin’ to have a f‑‑‑‑n’ meetin’ here!”

“Oh good, you’re here,” Susannah replied, ignoring his ire. She tried to draw Dolly, who squirmed like a desperate fish on the end of a line, over to Dutch. “You need to spank her.”

Dutch pulled back slightly, the shocked expression on his face not entirely hidden. “Uh—spank her? Why?”

“I don’t wanna be spanked!” Dolly wailed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Because she has been _very naughty_ today,” Susannah replied, giving the little girl a severe look.

“Um, well—why can’t _you_ spank her?” Dutch suggested, and Susannah’s eyes narrowed as she sensed his resistance.

“Because _you_ are the man of the house,” she hissed. “ _You’re_ supposed to be the disciplinarian!”

Dutch was not swayed by this reminder of the prevailing gender roles. “Well, um… I don’t _wanna_ spank her.”

“I don’t want a spanking!” Dolly repeated emphatically, in case anyone had missed that point.

“Dutch,” Susannah warned, fixing him with much the same look she had given Dolly.

“Well, J---s, what have you been doin’ to her already?” he protested. “I mean, she seems disciplined enough to _me_. C’mere, Dolly Belle,” he went on in a sympathetic tone, reaching for the little girl. “Oh, poor Dolly Belle!”

“I don’t wanna be spanked!” Dolly sobbed, collapsing against his shoulder as he rubbed her back.

“I’m not gonna spank you,” Dutch assured her, rocking her in his arms.

Susannah crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Why am I the only one in this house with any b—ls?” she demanded harshly.

“And Susannah’s not gonna spank you either,” Dutch promised Dolly. “No one’s gonna spank you, honey.”

Susannah appeared thoroughly disgusted. “Soft,” she declared, pointing at Dutch’s head, “soft”—indicating his heart or perhaps his spine—“soft.” Below the belt.

He tried not to smirk at that. “Yeah, you wait ‘til tonight, I’ll spank _you_. Shh, shh,” he told Dolly. “It’s okay. What’d she do, anyway?”

“She was getting into my jewelry and cosmetics again,” Susannah reported angrily. “After I’ve told her _several_ times not to. She got lip rouge on my diamonds!”

Dutch tried very, very hard not to smirk and didn’t entirely succeed. “Well, that’s very serious,” he attempted to agree, as Susannah rolled her eyes. “Listen, Dolly Belle, never f—k with a grown-up lady’s make-up or jewelry. That’s a very important rule.”

Dolly nodded, her face still wet with tears. “But they’re pretty and shiny!” she explained.

“Oh, you like pretty, shiny things?” Dutch responded. “You want me to buy you some pretty, shiny things of your own?”

Dolly nodded eagerly. “Good _G-d_ , Dutch!” Susannah exclaimed, no doubt sorry she had brought the matter to him. “Alright, put her down and go back to work.” Her tone indicated that was all she felt him fit for.

Dutch set the little girl back on the floor. “Okay, you go outside and play for a while,” he suggested, and she scampered off.

“Don’t wear your good shoes!” Susannah shouted after her. Then she turned and gave Dutch a long, icy glare in the silence that followed. “Pa-thetic,” she declared.

Dutch couldn’t help it any longer and burst into laughter. “I can’t believe you really thought I would f‑‑‑‑n’ spank her! That’s pretty sad on your part.”

“Yes, well, I forgot they cut off part of your d—k when you were a baby,” she snapped back.

“You are such a b---h,” Dutch replied affectionately. “You want me to buy you some _new_ diamonds?”

“F—k you,” Susannah huffed, pushing past him to go upstairs.

“I’ll take that as a f‑‑‑‑n’ yes!” Dutch shouted after her. A door slammed at the top of the house. He shook his head and strolled nonchalantly back into the office, where his assembled lieutenants were trying to look like they hadn’t witnessed the entire domestic drama. He settled back down at his desk and holstered his gun again. “Right, now, where were we? Oh yeah, I was sending you two to Harlem. I want you to check on that n----r Petey whatever and if he’s holdin’ out on any policy slips you break his f‑‑‑‑n’ kneecaps, you got it? I am f‑‑‑‑n’ tired of his bag comin’ up short at the end of the day…”

***

Dutch really failed to see what the attraction was in holding his hands, standing on his shoes, and being walked around the house like a puppet. It seemed rather monotonous to him, really. But Dolly seemed to thoroughly enjoy it and it was simple enough; so Dutch held her hands, let her stand on his shoes, and walked her around the house, accompanied by much childish laughter and pleas to continue. Well, Susannah would be happy to hear about it when she returned from shopping—she was always after him to spend more time with Dolly. As if he didn’t have enough he was supposed to accomplish each day.

Dutch heard another sound over Dolly’s laughter suddenly, a foreboding sound that set off alarms in his head. It wasn’t something just anyone would hear, though—the sound of a car slowing down on the street in front of the house. A heavily-laden car. And in Dutch’s mind that could only mean one thing.

Immediately he scooped Dolly up and headed for the door to cellar. “Run down to the basement and hide,” he ordered her, and to her great credit she saw how serious he was and scampered down the stairs without question. Dutch ran full-tilt to the kitchen next, where Bessie was washing dishes. “Get down to the basement with Dolly,” he told her. “Come on, hurry up!”

The gunfire began as they were in the hall, the glass of the windows shattering first. Dutch saw that Bessie had safely started on the basement stairs, then threw himself to the floor—more out of habit than necessity. Splinters of wood and bits of plaster sprayed him as he crawled down the hall and into the office, which faced the street. The floor was covered in broken glass and shreds of paper and fabric. He exchanged a look with Bub, who knelt behind one of the bookcases on the front wall, occasionally firing back out the broken window with his pistol. The wall itself offered little protection against the battery of machine gun fire.

Still keeping low Dutch scrambled across the room to Bub’s side. “Who is it?” he asked, trying to sneak a peek without getting a bullet in his forehead. It would be kind of hard to explain how he’d survived that, since had no intention of dying at this point in the game.

“Think I recognize one from Ross’s gang,” Bub replied calmly, taking another well-considered shot.

“F----n’ Irishman,” Dutch spat, searching the room for a weapon.

“I think he’s Scottish,” Bub corrected unhelpfully.

“Well, f—k _all_ the Celts,” Dutch decided. “You got another piece on you? I put mine down to play with Dolly.” Bub shook his head. “I’m goin’ for the closet, then.” He always kept a few weapons in there, just in case.

“I’ll go,” Bub offered, starting to hand Dutch his gun, but the other man brushed him off.

“Nah, you’ll never make it.” Considering he wasn’t bulletproof. “Cover me!”

Dutch scrambled across the open floor to the closet, a trail of chipped wood tracing his path. He hoped Bub wasn’t watching too closely, because he really should’ve gotten his hand shot off when he reached for the doorknob. Fortunately the object he was looking for was right near the front.

Dutch had always wanted to do this ever since seeing it in a movie; fortunately his current career afforded him more opportunities than one usually found. Having crawled back to the bookcase with his prize, Dutch gave Bub a maniacal grin, then popped up before the broken window and strafed the street with his own machine gun.

After a moment Bub tugged on his sleeve. “I think you got ‘em,” he pointed out dryly, indicating the smoking car and motionless bodies.

Dutch laughed gleefully. “F----rs! There is gonna be f----n’ h—l to pay now.” He helped Bub to his feet. “You okay?” He was. “Well, let’s go check out the f----n’ damage.”

“Boss! You okay?” asked Ritchie in concern as Dutch and Bub exited the house through the ridiculously perforated door. He and some of the other minions had come from the back of the house, firing around its side at the attackers.

“Oh yeah. Nothin’ like a little live ammo to get you goin’ for the day,” Dutch boasted, still toting the large, unwieldy gun. “Any of our guys get hit? Oh. Call for a doctor, then.”

“It’s nothin’, boss,” the bleeding underling insisted manfully.

“Hey, you can’t be too careful these days,” Dutch warned. “F----rs is coatin’ their bullets with rust and cyanide, you know.” For example, _him_ , though he preferred that not be common knowledge.

“We’re gonna need some new cars,” Bub observed, looking at the vehicles that had been parked near the attackers’ car.

“Forget the cars,” Dutch replied, turning back the way they’d come. “Look at the house! Susannah is gonna f----n’ kill me. Ah, s—t,” he added. “Look, they hit the neighbors’ window. Ritchie, go over to the Krantzes and see if they’re home,” Dutch ordered. “Tell ‘em they can come out of hiding now—“ Which reminded him. “F—k! I gotta check on Dolly.” He handed the machine gun regretfully to Bub. “Start lookin’ over these f----rs. Ritchie, tell the Krantzes I’ll pay for any damage. Apologize real nice. Joey, call the doctor for Leon.” At that point Dutch had reached the front door again and temporarily abandoned his men to check on the other members of the household.

Dutch opened the door to the basement and turned on the light. “Dolly Belle!” he called cheerfully, thumping down the stairs. “It’s okay, Dolly Belle, come on out!”

Dolly flew into his arms from the corner she’d been hiding in. “What’s going on?” she asked in a timid voice.

“We had a big storm!” Dutch told her with enthusiasm, going back up the stairs. “It was really bad. It broke the windows at the front of the house! I think it was a hurricane.”

“Oh my,” sighed Bessie, looking at the impressive mess.

“You call some people to help clean that up, okay?” Dutch suggested. “Do they have professional cleaners yet? I don’t know.” Bessie gave him a strange look, so he supposed not. He set Dolly on the bottom step. “You run up and play in your room for a while, okay? I don’t want you around all this broken glass.”

“Dutch!” He cringed slightly, hearing Susannah’s irritated voice outside.

“Go on now,” he told Dolly. “Susannah’s gonna use some vulgar language soon, and you don’t wanna hear that.”

***

Ritchie was not the brightest bulb in the marquee, that was for sure. But he was a good driver, and Dutch didn’t have to worry about him trying to be clever and undermine his boss somehow. Also, not being a really deep thinker, Ritchie didn’t seem to mind going out with Dutch and Dolly, even though the sight of a white man walking down the street holding hands with a colored girl was drawing more than a few stares from the passersby. Especially considering this was a predominantly white neighborhood. Dutch neither cared nor noticed himself; and if Dolly noticed, she didn’t say anything. She had more important things to notice.

“Dutch!” She began tugging on his hand, which gripped hers firmly to prevent any wandering off. “Dutch! Dutch!” Sometimes it was hard to get his attention, holding hands or not.

“ _What?_ ” he demanded, glancing down at her finally. “Why do you always gotta be whinin’ about something, huh? We’re almost home.”

“Can we have some ice cream?” Dolly asked, pointing towards the shop ahead of them. She couldn’t read too many words yet, but the large drawing of the ice cream cone in the window was clear enough.

“Oh. Well, sure, I guess,” Dutch decided. “You want some ice cream, Ritchie?” Of course Ritchie wanted ice cream. He wasn’t too bright, but he was bright enough to not say _no_ when the boss asked a question like that. “Alright. We’ll have some ice cream.”

The three of them entered the shop, the little bell above the door tinkling to announce their entrance. There were a few patrons scattered about the cheerful, blue-and-white shop, enjoying ice cream concoctions of various kinds, and Dolly stared at the bright menu on the wall behind the counter, trying to decipher the name of some exotic treat. Meanwhile, the other patrons stared at _her_. “Alright, up we go,” Dutch announced, lifting the little girl onto a stool at the counter. He took the one next to her and Ritchie settled onto her other side, his large frame slightly ridiculous on the small seat. “Now, what do you want?”

“Um, excuse me, sir.” The counter man—counter boy, really—appeared in front of them in his crisp white apron and hat.

“We haven’t decided yet,” Dutch told him dismissively, looking at a paper menu laid out on the counter.

“Excuse me, _sir_ ,” the boy repeated, more emphatically, and Dutch looked up in annoyance. “We don’t serve colored here.”

Dutch blinked at him, apparently mystified. “Your point?”

“Well,” the boy was forced to point out, nodding at Dolly, “ _she’s_ colored. And we don’t serve colored here.”

Life would be rather dull if everyone always did what you wanted, Dutch reflected. On the other hand, they could do what he wanted a little more often. “Don’t serve colored here, huh,” he repeated off-hand. Then, far too quickly for the boy to prepare, Dutch’s hand shot out and grabbed the boy’s collar, yanking him closer and no doubt bruising his ribs against the napkin holder on the counter between them. “Listen, you little s—t. You. Serve. _Me_ ,” Dutch pointed out matter-of-factly, ignoring the shocked gasps from the patrons behind him. “Don’t f‑‑k with me.”

He released the boy, shoving him backwards into the shelves behind the counter. “You must be new here. That’s right, go run and get your f‑‑‑‑n’ boss,” he added as the counter boy scurried towards the back room. The bell above the door tinkled as several customers made a quick escape from the suddenly less-cheerful ice cream shop.

An older man in a better suit hurried in from the back room. His manner was far more ingratiating. “Mr. Schultz! How delightful to see you today!” He was more nervous than delighted, of course, glancing continually between Dutch and Ritchie.

“Good, glad to hear it,” Dutch replied shortly. “Am I gonna have any f‑‑‑‑n’ problems here?”

“No, no problems at all, Mr. Schultz,” the manager assured him. “Anything you would like is on the house, of course.”

Dutch held up his hand in protest. “We don’t need to go that far,” he told the man. “I ain’t a f‑‑‑‑n’ freeloader, you know.”

“Of course not, Mr. Schultz!” the manager insisted, but Dutch ignored him and turned to Dolly.

“So what do you want, kid?”

“I want a banana split,” she decided thoughtfully.

Dutch looked doubtful. “A whole banana split. You think you can eat a whole banana split yourself.” She nodded eagerly at the challenge. He gave her a sideways glance. “Are you gonna tell Susannah I used vulgar language in front of you?” She shook her head firmly. “Okay, you can have a banana split, then.”

“One banana split, of course,” the manager interjected eagerly.

“Gimme a hot chocolate sundae, and whatever he wants,” Dutch added, indicating Ritchie. He looked up suddenly, his gaze pinning the retreating counter boy. “You spit in it and I will f‑‑‑‑n’ shoot you in the face, got it?”

***

Lucky was far too amused by the ice cream shop story for Dutch’s understanding. “‘Alleged gangster Schultz forces integration of ice cream parlor,’” the other man read from the newspaper. “’Patrons flee as Schultz violently demands colored girl be served.’ I didn’t realize you were an advocate of social desegregation, Dutch.”

Dutch snorted. “Well, I’m an advocate of gettin’ what I want,” he corrected.

***

The little girl knelt in the back seat, looking out the back window at the passing scenery. “Dutch, why is the sky blue?”

“Because the atmosphere scatters the short, blue wavelengths of light more than the other colors,” he replied absently, focused on the newspaper he was reading.

“What?”

“Uh, the sky is like a big stained-glass window, but only with blue glass,” he tried again. “The other colors of the rainbow get through okay, but the blue gets stuck in the sky.”

“Oh.” Dolly gave this some thought, then moved on. “How come people get smaller when they’re farther away?”

Dutch shook the newspaper to indicate reading it was his preferred activity. But he wouldn’t want to be _anti-educational_ , after all. “They _appear_ to get smaller because the angle of separation between their head and feet gets smaller,” he corrected. “They take up less room in your field of view.”

The little girl wasn’t sure if this was an acceptable answer or not, but she pressed on. “Why does the green light mean _go_?”

“Because green is the opposite of red, which means _stop_. And,” he added, as she opened her mouth with a follow-up, “red means _stop_ because red indicates danger across a broad array of times and cultures.”

“Why does—“

“What are you quizzin’ me for?” Dutch demanded, finally losing patience. “I am tryin’ to read the newspaper here. C’mere, you wanna help me read it? Come learn about important people in the world.” Dolly scooted closer to him and peered at the black and white picture he indicated. “Now look at those names. These are gonna be some very important people in the world.”

Dolly looked at the names, and at the picture. Then she decided to ask another question. “Are there any important colored people?”

“Well, sure,” Dutch answered without missing a beat, as Bub subtly tuned in from the front seat. “Martin Luther King, Junior. Oh, no, wait, that’s wrong,” he corrected. “Um, Harriet Tubman. She helped free slaves with the Underground Railroad, before the Civil War. She was colored _and_ a woman.”

“What’s an Underground Railroad?”

“It’s not really a railroad, it was a series of hidden passages and safe houses so slaves could sneak out of the South,” Dutch told her.

“Oh. What’s another one?” Dolly pressed.

He sighed, wondering what he had started. “Another important colored person… Um, Frederick Douglass. He also worked to free slaves before the Civil War, and he wrote a book. Can’t you look this up in your encyclopedia?” he added pointedly. The thing took up three shelves, it ought to be good for _something_.

“Only if I know their names,” Dolly countered innocently. “Do you remember the Civil War, Dutch?”

He gave her a narrow look. “No, I don’t remember the Civil War. It was seventy years ago. I ain’t that old. Even my old man didn’t remember the Civil War.”

This gave the little girl a new route of inquisition. “What was your daddy like?”

Dutch rattled his newspaper impatiently. “My old man? He was a drunk who beat me all the time.”

The answer didn’t seem to faze her. “What about your mommy?”

“Um, she ran off when I was eleven,” Dutch replied, turning the page of the newspaper in a futile attempt to keep reading it. “Can’t imagine why.”

“What happened to her?”

“No idea. You see a middle-aged streetwalker with a nose like mine, let me know. It’s probably her.”

For a few minutes, he dared hope that Dolly was satisfied. “Where’s _my_ mommy?” she finally asked.

Dutch rolled his eyes. Now she was just being annoying. “You _know_ where she is,” he protested. “She’s gettin’ her hair done. That’s why I’m stuck with you today.”

“No, I mean my _real_ mommy.”

“Oh.” The _real_ mommy. The real mommy who was dead. “Um… She had to go on a trip,” Dutch lied, not especially well, but he didn’t think Dolly would notice. “Up north. Way up north. A very long trip.”

“When will she come back?”

“Well, not for a long time,” he admitted. “Um, but you can stay with me and Susannah in the meantime, and that’s nice, isn’t it?” Dutch added with forced pleasantness.

“I guess so,” Dolly replied cautiously. “But, I miss my real mommy.”

“You don’t even remember her,” he accused tactlessly.

“I do!” Dolly protested. “She used to sing to me at night.”

“No, she didn’t,” Dutch countered.

“Yes, she did.”

“No, she didn’t. I think I would know.” That was also a lie, of course, but Dolly was beginning to look uncertain, which was what he was going for.

For a while she was quiet. Then she went back to an earlier topic. “Aren’t there any important colored people _today_?”

Dutch made a noise of frustration. “Um… Langston Hughes. He’s a poet. _Bring me all of your dreams/You dreamer/Bring me all your/Heart melodies/That I may wrap them/In a blue cloud-cloth/Away from the too-rough fingers/Of the world_.” Bub turned fully around in the seat, staring at his boss. Dutch appeared not to notice.

“A colored man wrote that? It’s pretty,” Dolly decided.

“Ask Bessie to get you a book of his,” Dutch suggested. “Langston Hughes. Harlem Renaissance. Look that up in the encyclopedia. Well, that was only in the ‘20’s, so I don’t know if it would make the encyclopedia yet. Can I read my newspaper now, please?”

“Okay,” Dolly agreed. Less than sixty seconds of silence had passed before she suggested, “What are you reading?”

Dutch growled in the back of his throat, more in frustration than menace. “I am reading…” He scanned the articles looking for something of interest, then suddenly giggled. “ _Gang Pictures Assailed. Dr. Bernard Sachs Asserts Pictures Teach Young People How to Commit Wrongs_ ,” he read gleefully. “Are you listenin’ to this, Ritchie?”

“Yeah, boss,” the driver answered immediately. “What’s wrong with gang pictures?”

“ ‘Dr. Bernard Sachs, president of the New York Academy of Medicine, charged that “the moving picture, in its presentation of excessive sex drama and above all in its presentation of gangster activities has become the veritable school of crime,” ’ ” Dutch read with delight. “I don’t remember any ‘excessive sex drama.’ I must be goin’ to the wrong f‑‑‑‑n’ movies.” He glanced down at Dolly. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken you to see _Manhattan Melodrama_ ,” he decided. “Now you’re gonna grow up to be a criminal.”

“I like gang pictures,” Ritchie admitted with some dismay.

Dutch read on. “Here’s another quote from this guy. ‘By showing in dramatic, succinct form the details of how crimes are committed, the gangster type of film actually teaches the young child how to go about committing acts of violence…. May also lead to restlessness, discontent with its lot, and eventual action of an anti-social nature in an effort to gain what it sees represented in the films. Particularly is this true of the films that glorify the rough, brutal behavior of members of the underworld.’ ” Dutch was snickering so hard he could hardly finish the sentence. “This is f‑‑‑‑n’ fantastic. I’m gonna clip this out and save it. I think my problems all started when I saw _The Musketeers of Pig Alley_ when I was twelve.”

“I didn’t like that movie we saw,” Dolly interjected. “It was scary.”

“Well there you go,” Dutch replied, as if she had confirmed all the theories of the eminent Dr. Sachs. “I know, I know,” he went on, at her accusatory look. “Next time we’ll go see that Shirley Temple movie, okay?”

***

“Susannah! Move your f‑‑‑‑n’ a-s already!” Dutch shouted up the stairs.

“Cool your f‑‑‑‑n’ heels!” was the response, and he rolled his eyes and continued to pace in the foyer.

“Hear that?” he asked Dolly, spotting the little girl around the corner of the stairs. “That’s Susannah usin’ vulgar language in front of you.”

Dolly wisely ignored this. “You’re all dressed up,” she observed.

“Yeah, you like my monkey suit?” Dutch asked, spreading his arms and turning so she could see the tuxedo.

“Why’s it called a monkey suit?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged, tugging uncomfortably at the collar. “Maybe ‘cause you feel like a monkey wearin’ it.”

“Susannah’s getting dressed up, too,” Dolly reported. “She looks pretty.”

“Well she better,” Dutch decided. “We’re goin’ to a nice place tonight.”

“Where you goin’?”

“The Cotton Club,” Dutch revealed. “You heard of it? It’s a very fancy nightclub.”

“You gonna dance there?” Dolly asked eagerly.

“Of course! I’m a great dancer,” Dutch asserted. “C’mere.” The little girl climbed onto his shoes and they began waltzing around the foyer. “See? I’m like Fred Astaire.” Dolly giggled. “Know what else we’re gonna do? We’re gonna listen to this new singer, and I’m probably gonna buy a piece of her.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna sing with her?” questioned Dolly in confusion.

“No, I’m more of a silent partner,” Dutch responded. “That means, whenever she makes money, I’m gonna get some of it. But, she can act like she don’t even know me. I think she’s gonna be big.”

“Oh,” said Dolly, pretending to understand. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Billie Holiday,” Dutch replied. In the adjoining room, Bub looked up from his newspaper with some interest. “You remember that, you’re gonna hear her on the radio soon.”

“Is she pretty?” Dolly wanted to know. “Is she as pretty as Susannah?”

“Well, no one’s as pretty as Susannah,” Dutch reminded her, and Dolly nodded. “But I ain’t never seen this girl, so I don’t know how close she comes. She’s a colored girl,” he added.

Dolly’s eyes widened. “They have colored singers at the club you’re going to?”

“Oh, sure. Colored singers, and colored musicians, too.”

“Can I come and see them sometime?”

Dutch looked down at the little girl thoughtfully. “Well, maybe sometime Bub could sneak you in the back.” At this Bub pulled his newspaper back up, so as to not get caught up in Dutch’s scheme. “They don’t allow coloreds in the audience.”

Dolly frowned. “They have colored singers, but colored people can’t go watch them?”

“Nope,” Dutch replied succinctly. “That’s what we call _irony_.”

“Oh.”

“It ain’t always gonna be that way,” Dutch added, seeing the disappointed expression on the little girl’s face.

“It’s not?” Dolly asked hopefully.

“Nope. If you live to be, oh, eighty or so, you’ll see a colored President,” he claimed. Safely behind the newspaper, Bub rolled his eyes, having heard that prediction before. A colored President seemed right up there with men walking on the moon, another of Dutch’s imaginative claims for the future.

Dolly’s eyes widened at the idea, however. “Of America?”

“Uh-huh,” Dutch confirmed. “But don’t hold your breath, that’s not for a long time. There’s gonna be a lot of crazy stuff that happens first.” He glanced at the stairs, hearing Susannah’s footsteps at the top of the house. “Alright, skedaddle,” he told Dolly. “It’s almost your bedtime, you know.”

“Okay. Good night, Dutch,” she replied, giving him a hug.

“Good night, Dolly.” The little girl scampered away.

A moment later Susannah appeared on the stairs, still affixing an earring. “Well it’s about f‑‑‑‑n’ time,” Dutch complained, helping her into her fur coat. “We’re gonna miss the whole show!”

“Oh shut up,” Susannah rejoined. “She can just keep singing a while longer. Dutch!” she admonished, looking him over, “how did you get your shoes scuffed _already_? I just saw Bessie polishing them this afternoon!”

Dutch glanced down without concern. “F—k if I know.” He opened the front door, shooing Susannah along.

“I don’t know if they’ll even let you _in_ to the Cotton Club with scuffed shoes…”

***

“Are you goin’ out?” Susannah asked from halfway down the stairs.

Dutch looked up at her from the foyer where he and the others were putting on their coats. “No, we’re gonna sit around in the kitchen with windows open eatin’ ice cream,” he answered sarcastically.

Susannah ignored that. “Come up and say good-night to Dolly first,” she requested.

Dutch gave her a put-upon look. “Honey, we’re kinda in a rush here—“

“Well don’t drag your feet as you go up the stairs,” she countered, stepping aside pointedly.

Sighing helplessly, Dutch handed his gun to one of his men. “I’ve got an idea,” he muttered as he headed upstairs. “Why don’t we just cut off my b—ls, and you can bronze ‘em and wear ‘em as a brooch?”

“Maybe later,” Susannah answered sweetly. “You’re in a hurry now.”

The men waited awkwardly in the foyer while Susannah stood there serenely. The minutes started to stretch out, but of course no one dared express the opinion that Dutch should hurry up. Finally, just as even Susannah began drumming her fingers on the staircase post, there was a noise from upstairs and Dutch reappeared, toting a crying Dolly.

“Dutch!” Susannah chastised. The girl certainly wasn’t crying when Susannah had tucked her in.

“Sorry!” he replied, trying to pass the little girl to her. Dolly clung tightly to him, however. “Dolly Belle, come on, I gotta go, honey!”

“I don’t want you to go!” she sobbed, clutching his coat.

Susannah attempted to pry her loose. “Now, Dolly, it’s time to go to bed! And Dutch has to go out. He’ll be back later.”

“I don’t want you to go!” she repeated. “I don’t want you to get hurt!”

“I’m not gonna get hurt, Dolly Belle,” Dutch insisted, kissing her cheek. “I never get hurt! Come on. Uh, I’ll bring you back a present.”

“What kind of present?” Dolly asked, mollified enough that Dutch was able to escape from her.

“It’s a surprise,” he replied, getting out of her reach quickly. “Okay, now you go to bed, and I’ll see you later, alright? Bye!” He shot out the door with the others.

“What has gotten into you, Dolly?” Susannah chastised, carrying the still-sniffling girl back up to her bed. “Look at you, now you’re all worked up!”

***

Two hours later, while something best not put into words was occurring in the background, Dutch leaned against a stack of crates, lost in thought. “You want us to keep going, boss?” asked one eager minion. “Boss?”

“Dutch,” hinted Bub, and he finally looked up.

“Oh, yeah, just keep at it,” Dutch decided, obviously distracted. “I can’t figure out how to get a present for Dolly before morning,” he admitted to Bub conversationally. “Everything’s closed. I don’t really want to do a smash-and-grab on a toy store.”

“Call a toy store owner,” Bub suggested sensibly, keeping an eye on the activity of the night. “They would open their shop for you.” Even in the middle of the night—they wouldn’t want to risk it being burned down.

“That’s a good idea,” Dutch agreed, though Bub could tell he wasn’t completely sold on it. “Well, maybe I could—“ A new kind of shout caught his attention and both men looked up to see that somehow their guest had acquired a gun. “F—k!” Dutch exclaimed and, as usual, ran recklessly into the path of danger. The gunshot knocked him down but also out of the way, so his men could neutralize the threat permanently.

“Dutch! You okay?” Bub asked, running to his side.

“Well, I don’t know about _okay_ , exactly,” Dutch admitted, struggling to sit up. “Ow! That really f‑‑‑‑n’ hurts!” Bub started to pull away the fabric covering Dutch’s shoulder, which was rapidly becoming saturated with blood.

“We should get a doctor,” he decided.

“F‑‑‑‑n’—“ Dutch sighed. “And I wanted that f----r alive, too!” he complained with irritation. “I was gonna _take_ the f‑‑‑‑n’ gun from him.”

“The laws of physics were against you,” Bub replied dryly, beginning the rudimentary first aid procedures he had applied to Dutch so many times before.

“Uh, boss?” one of his henchmen asked tentatively. “What should we do with _him_?”

“Well, we better call Lucky and tell him all did not go as f‑‑‑‑n’ planned,” Dutch decided, with some regret.

***

The sun was just coming up when Susannah heard the front door. At first she resisted the desire to wander downstairs to greet the returning men—she was supposed to be asleep, after all. But then she heard Bub telling Dutch he should get some rest, and Dutch complaining that Susannah was going to kill him for ruining another suit, and she decided she had better check things out.

“What did you do?” she demanded, hurrying down the stairs to see Dutch with his arm in a sling.

“I got f‑‑‑‑n’ _shot_ , that’s what,” Dutch reported peevishly. “Don’t tell Dolly, she’ll have a f‑‑‑‑n’ nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Susannah sympathized, which was what he liked to hear. “Do you need a doctor?”

“Nah, already took care of it,” he assured her. “We camped out at Lucky’s last night. Oh, and hey—“ He signaled to one of the men who had been entrusted with a precious object and it was brought over. “—I got this for Dolly. Let’s go put it in bed with her.”

Susannah took the toy. “What is it?” she asked dubiously.

“It’s a rabbit, I think,” he replied, turning it over in her hands. “Lucky had it. It was gonna be a toy for them mutts of his”—Susannah prepared to let out an indignant squawk—“but they ain’t used it yet,” he assured her. “One-hundred-percent dog slobber-free.”

She looked like she still wasn’t quite sure if it was acceptable. “Well, let’s get you up to bed,” she decided. Rest would indeed help to heal his injury faster—fast enough that he would probably have to fake having it for a while, to seem more realistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newspaper quotes from the New York Times, May 1 and 12, 1934


	3. Chapter 3

“Dutch, I think Dolly is lonely.”

“Well, you shouldn’t spend so much time out shopping.” ::whap:: “Ow! You wanna fight me? Is that what we’re gonna do?”

“No, I’m serious. Stop it! Listen to me. I think Dolly needs… a sister.”

“F—k.”

“Dutch—“

“You _said_ just one, but I shoulda f‑‑‑‑n’ known! You do this every chance you get! Don’t it get f‑‑‑‑n’ boring after a while?!”

“No, it doesn’t, not that I would expect _you_ to understand that.”

“Susannah—look, with what we got goin’ here, it’s already dangerous enough—“

“Two little girls is not going to be any more dangerous than one.”

“Well, it’s _two_ little girls _in_ danger, instead of one.”

“If you think it’s _too_ dangerous I’ll do what I said before. I’ll take them out West by myself.”

“You take this too f‑‑‑‑n’ serious, Susannah. We been at this too long for you to take it so f‑‑‑‑n’ serious.”

“This is what I want to do, Wayland.”

“It’s Dutch, sweetheart.”

“This is how I want to play it, Dutch.”

::sigh:: “Okay, fine. Go find another one.”

***

It didn’t take long. Dutch was working on the books in his office when Bub cleared his throat and he looked up to see Susannah standing in the doorway with an expectant expression on her face. She was holding the hand of a thin little girl in a flowered dress.

“They got a new stand at the Farmers’ Market?” Dutch deadpanned. “I thought you were just goin’ to pick up some tomatoes.”

Susannah rolled her eyes and drew the girl closer to him, waiting until Dutch had removed his gun from his shoulder holster and placed it safely out of the way. “I got her through the Suarezes—they have that vegetable stand? She belongs to a neighbor of theirs.” Dutch stood the little girl in front of him and looked her over as though inspecting a piece of furniture. “They’ve been looking after her since her mother went out to Hollywood last year.”

Dutch snorted. “She got a burnin’ desire to play a maid in a lotta movies?”

“I’m sure she thinks she’ll be a movie star,” Susannah corrected, with some disdain. “But it’s been a long time, and they’ve never heard from her. And, times bein’ what they are, they could use one less mouth to feed.”

“How much could this one have eaten?” Dutch protested. “I got coats that weigh more than her.” He tugged one of the girl’s curls, trying to get her to smile.

“Well, she might be a little sickly,” Susannah admitted, “but we’ll soon get that cleared up. Oh, and guess what her name is!” she added excitedly.

“Maria,” guessed Dutch.

Susannah’s face fell. “How did you know?”

“That’s what all spics name their daughters,” he shrugged.

She gave him a narrow look. “And I don’t want you using that word around her!” she ordered crossly. “Or any other vulgar language, got it?”

“Alright, alright!”

“Anyway,” Susannah went on, “it’s just perfect, because I can call her Molly! So I’ll have Dolly and Molly. Isn’t that cute?”

“Just darling,” Dutch agreed sarcastically. “One question—what happens if the big star returns and wants her back?” Susannah gave him a steely look and lifted her chin slightly. He could see that meant the woman would have a fight on her hands. “Okay,” he sighed. “I don’t know if we got any rice and beans to feed her, though,” he added cheekily.

Susannah glared at him. “Alright, come on, sweetie,” she told the girl, who may or may not have understood English. “Let’s go meet your new sister!”

“You wanna change the name scheme, now’s the time!” Dutch called after them. “We can still call ‘em Blackberry and Mango!” Susannah gave him the finger in response, behind the girl’s back, and Dutch chuckled.

***

Dutch was in the midst of a meeting with his lieutenants when there was a knock on the office door and it slid open to reveal Susannah. “Sorry to interrupt,” she began blithely.

“Why don’t I f‑‑‑‑n’ believe that?” Dutch replied mildly. Susannah entered anyway and Dutch burst into a huge grin when he saw who she was trailing—a pint-sized, pigtailed Chinese girl with a pudgy build and broad smile. “We get an extra delivery with the laundry today?” he guessed.

“None of that,” Susannah admonished. “I just picked her up in Chinatown. She was scrubbing floors for some horrible old woman, so she’s very happy to be here!”

Dutch lifted her onto his knee. “Guess this one weren’t starvin’, huh?” he commented good-naturedly, tickling her nose with her pigtail until she giggled. “A few too many fortune cookies, huh?”

Susannah rolled her eyes. “Her name is Ping”—Dutch looked up at her in some alarm, ready to protest—“but I’m going to call her Polly.”

“Oh, Polly, alright,” he agreed. “Dolly, Molly, and Polly. Well, that’s about the end of those names, right?”

“Not hardly,” Susannah countered, taking the girl back. “Come on, let’s go meet the others.”

Dutch waited until the door had been shut behind them. “She can’t just collect f‑‑‑‑n’ _hats_?” he muttered, resuming his meeting.

***

They were a couple of blocks from McInnerny’s office building when Dutch leaned forward, resting his arm on the back of the seat, to talk to Bub. Well it was about time he was let in on the plan, the older man thought. At least, he _hoped_ there was a plan.

“Alright. So the three of us”—meaning Dutch, Bub, and Susannah, who was half-hidden in the shadows with her fedora and trenchcoat—“are gonna go inside, and _your_ job is to take Dolly and Bessie back to the car and look after ‘em. If it gets threatenin’, you take off and get ‘em home, got it? Me and Susannah can meet you there later.”

“You’ll catch a cab?” Bub asked dryly. After they had escaped from the clutches of McInnerny _and_ his gang, alone, unarmed, on foot, of course.

“Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine,” Dutch assured him. “Just get Dolly out of there.” Yes, it was a great plan—if Dutch was leaving out the part where he’d bribed the US Army to invade on his behalf. “Oh, and one other thing. Don’t look at Susannah.”

Bub had followed a lot of strange orders from Dutch over the years. Most of them had turned out to be good ideas, even if they seemed terrible or pointless at the time. This had to be the worst so far, though. Easily.

“Got it?” Dutch pressed, as serious as Bub had ever seen him.

The other man nodded once. “Got it.” He just hoped he could get the little girl out safely—she and Bessie didn’t deserve to be mixed up in this.

Bub parked the car in front of the building and the three of them were rapidly ‘assisted’ from it by the waiting Irish thugs and maneuvered up to a spacious office on the third floor. Bub counted the number of armed men they passed and found it distressingly high. McInnerny wasn’t taking chances with Dutch Schultz.

The Irishman was seated complacently behind a desk. “I thought I told you to come alone,” he pointed out genially, clearly not too worried about those who had accompanied Dutch.

“I _am_ alone,” Dutch replied dismissively. “You expected me to f‑‑‑‑n’ drive myself? Or deal with a snot-nosed kid?”

At that moment Dolly burst through a side door, having eluded her captors momentarily. “Dutch!” she exclaimed, racing to his arms.

He scooped her up immediately. “You okay? You hurt?”

“I’m okay,” Dolly replied, hugging him tightly.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Dutch,” Bessie said in a quavering tone, having followed Dolly into the room more sedately, and with a gunman at her back. “I thought it was alright to get in the car…” Her eyes strayed to an uncomfortable-looking man off to the side.

“It’s okay, Bessie,” Dutch assured her, giving the betrayer a cold look. Well, he would soon pay for what he’d done. He set Dolly back on her feet. “You go out to the car with Bub, okay?” He glanced at Bessie to include her in this command.

“Hold it,” McInnerny demanded with some indignation. “They ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til _I_ give the word!”

“Well f‑‑‑‑n’ give the word already. You got _me_ ,” Dutch pointed out, as though the advantage should be obvious. “You don’t need them.”

“Well,” McInnerny decided pleasantly, “it _was_ you I wanted, Dutch.” He nodded at his men. “They can go.” Bub, Bessie, and Dolly hurried out the door before he could change his mind. “And not just you, but you’ve brought your lovely—wife? Mistress?”

“Susannah,” Dutch replied unhelpfully. The woman took a few steps forward to join him, still partially hiding her face with the hat and coat collar. “But you made a big mistake,” he went on, wanting to stall a bit to give the others more time to reach the car.

“Oh really,” McInnerny replied with skepticism, rising from behind the desk. “I would call it a bold strategy, which paid off in full,” he countered, quite pleased with himself. “Perhaps now we can have that little ‘chat’ I’ve been so eager for,” the gangster went on. He strolled across the room to stand in front of Dutch and Susannah. “I’m not an _unreasonable_ man, Dutch,” he insisted. “I’ve got a modest operation, I’m perfectly content to _share_ the profits from your policy racket. For the moment, anyway.” He glanced with some uncertainty at Susannah. “Are you sure you want the lady present for this discussion?” he questioned.

“I like the way you say ‘discussion’ like you’re _not_ actually planning to beat the s—t out of me,” Dutch replied cheerfully. “I wish I could do that menacing metaphor thing. Like, I wish I could turn to Eddie over there”—the junior thug who had lured Dolly and Bessie into McInnerny’s car with a familiar face—“and say, ‘You and I are gonna have a little talk later,’ and have him be s-----n’ himself ‘cause he knows what I’m _really_ gonna do to him.”

“It’s a gift,” the Irishman replied, unsure what else he should say. Eddie looked plenty nervous already.

“Yeah, I just don’t got the patience for it,” Dutch continued breezily. “Every time I try I just lose my temper and stab someone in the eyeball halfway through.”

“Uh-huh.” McInnerny didn’t really understand how a slobby, uncouth mad dog like Schultz had risen so far in their profession—he had the requisite ruthlessness, sure, but you also needed a certain style, a certain savvy. If Lucky Luciano—a like-minded figure if ever there was one—had agreed to be McInnerny’s intermediary on this subject, the Irishman wouldn’t have to resort to these brutal measures. On the other hand, he could see why Luciano wouldn’t want to deal with Schultz any more than he absolutely had to. “Well,” McInnerny finally decided, “I guess now that the pleasantries have come to an end—“ Some of the thugs began to move in menacingly.

“Hang on a second,” Dutch countered. “You haven’t been properly introduced to Susannah yet.”

Startled and slightly suspicious, McInnerny turned to the oddly-dressed woman. “Well, I—“ Susannah pulled the hat away, revealing her face in full for the first time. And the Irishman started to scream.

Down in the car Bub heard the sudden increase in noise from inside the building. “Get down,” he ordered Dolly and Bessie, who immediately dropped to the floor of the back seat. Bub ducked as well, peering up just enough to see the two men guarding the outside door glance nervously at each other. Gunshots echoed from the interior and they finally decided to run upstairs to help. There was no part of Bub that wanted to do the same. He wasn’t suicidal, after all.

More shouting and screaming. Another carload of men arrived and raced past Bub’s car into the building. More gunshots. Neither Dutch nor Susannah had carried a gun in, as far as Bub knew, so they had either lifted one from someone else, or they were dodging a lot. But the fact that people were still shooting at them meant that they were still alive.

Then all the noise, shouts, and gunshots stopped. And Bub wasn’t sure what _that_ meant.

Suddenly the front passenger door was flung open. “Let’s get the f—k out of here,” Dutch suggested. Bub straightened up and glanced back to see Susannah, half-concealed, in the corner of the back seat. Police sirens wailed in the distance and Bub floored it.

“Susannah?” Dolly asked tentatively, reaching a hand out to her foster mother. She had expected a warmer welcome from the woman, who had so far ignored her.

“Leave Susannah alone,” Dutch ordered, reaching back. “Come sit up here with me.” The little girl clambered over the back of the seat into Dutch’s arms. “That’s it, good girl. You sure you’re okay? They didn’t hurt you at all?”

“No, I’m okay,” Dolly replied, curling up against him closely.

“Yeah, you’re a brave girl, aren’t you?” Dutch praised. “You’ll have an excitin’ story to tell your sisters. How about you, Bessie?”

The housekeeper seemed slightly startled to be called upon. “Oh, I’m fine, Mr. Dutch,” she replied. “Those young men were all very polite.”

“That’s nice,” Dutch said dryly. “Otherwise I’d have to teach ‘em a lesson.”

“You alright, Dutch?” Bub asked as they raced through the streets. “You need me to send for a doctor?”

“Nope, not a scratch,” Dutch asserted. “Get rid of the car,” he added when they pulled up in front of the house. “Alright, everybody out! Come on, I think it’s past someone’s bedtime!”

The front door was opened for them by one of Dutch’s lieutenants, who looked suitably concerned. “Everything okay, boss?”

Several others crowding the foyer were brushed aside by Susannah, who hurried upstairs without a word. “Oh, yeah, just fine,” Dutch replied, setting Dolly down. “Go help Bub with the car.”

Squealing came from the kitchen as Molly and Polly embraced their missing sister. “Girls! Come on back here, out of the way,” hissed Nadine, who was the wife of one of Dutch’s lieutenants. Which one, he could never recall, but it was nice to have her fill in as babysitter in an emergency.

“Bessie, you’re welcome to stay here for the night,” Dutch offered. “And take the day off tomorrow. You get kidnapped, you get an extra vacation day, that’s the new rule.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Dutch,” Bessie replied tiredly. “I think I’ll just go on to the kitchen.” And see what kind of mess Nadine had made of it.

Dutch shrugged off his coat and hung it up in the hall along with his hat, ignoring the eager stares of his men. They trailed him silently into his office and, when it looked like he was content to just pick up his newspaper where he’d left off, they finally had to ask. “So… did you make a deal with McInnerny, boss?”

“No,” Dutch replied shortly. “I did not. I told you I wasn’t gonna make no f‑‑‑‑n’ deals with that mick b-----d.”

“Um, so… how’d you get out of there?” ventured another bold follower.

Dutch smiled his twisted shark’s grin at them. “Get the early edition of the paper tomorrow, boys,” he suggested.

***

The pair of police detectives were let into the house the next morning with many menacing looks and disrespectful body language—hardly more than they could expect, lawmen walking straight into the lair of villainy. At least it wasn’t _overt_ hostility. But the feeling was definitely there. And mutual.

But this was Dutch Schultz’s house, and nothing was ever quite as expected here. For example, when the detectives were shown into Dutch’s office, where several of his lieutenants were gathered attentively, they didn’t expect to see a little girl sitting on Dutch’s desk with her feet in his lap.

“You’re six years old,” he was telling her seriously. “You gotta learn to tie your own shoes.” He finished looping one of her laces as she burbled in, possibly, Chinese. “Don’t give me that,” he replied. “I know you can figure it out. Don’t let the other girls show you up. They’re gonna make fun of you behind your back. Alright, there you go. Come on.” Dutch lifted the girl down from the desk and pointed her towards the door. “Go away now. Shoo.” She trotted off past the detectives. Dutch sat back down in his chair and gave his visitors an appraising look. “Well come in. Have a seat.”

“You want your gun back, boss?” asked one of the minions.

Dutch waved him off. “Nah, you better keep it. Guns and detectives don’t mix well—just like with little girls.” There was some snickering at this remark, though not from the two detectives who had seated themselves on the other side of the desk.

The older policeman had more experience at keeping his cool when dealing with disrespectful underworld denizens. “Ed Brown, 87th Precinct,” he introduced calmly. “My partner, George Riley.”

“You want some coffee?” Dutch offered solicitously. Before they could answer he turned his chair away. “Ritchie, go tell Bessie to bring us some coffee. Oh wait, it’s her day off. Ritchie, uh… go _find_ some coffee. Somehow. What I wouldn’t give for a Starbucks…”

“Okay, boss,” Ritchie agreed dutifully, ignoring the parts he didn’t understand. Bub slid the office door shut behind him.

“It might be a while on the coffee,” Dutch admitted, clearly dubious of Ritchie’s coffee-obtaining capabilities.

“That’s okay,” Detective Brown assured him dryly. “You see the morning paper, Dutch?”

“Oh yeah, _Ed_ ,” Dutch replied easily. “F‑‑‑‑n’ Lucky Duck came in first in Atlantic City. At thirteen-to-one odds! I lost half a yard to Susannah on that one. What a b---h. The dog, I mean. Sometimes Susannah, too.”

Brown blinked, waiting to see if the other man was finally done. “Perhaps you also saw the front page headline?” he suggested. “The Tavish Building Massacre?”

Dutch grinned. “Yeah, I saw that, too. Bye-bye, McInnerny.”

“You don’t seem too upset by it,” Detective Riley observed.

“Upset? I’m f‑‑‑‑n’ ecstatic,” Dutch told him. “That mick b-----d’s been p----n’ me off for six months now. I am _thrilled_ to see him finally kick it.” The two detectives glanced at each other, not sure what to make of this response. Dutch turned to one of his associates, gesturing at a newspaper lying near the man. “Louie, read it again. Read my favorite part.”

With slightly less glee Louie found the sentence he knew his boss was interested in. “’All seventeen bodies had been dismembered in various ways, with the skin pulled from the flesh in many cases, a truly inhuman—‘”

“’Act of barbarism,’” Dutch chorused at the end, then chortled a little. “I’m gonna cut that one out and save it. They didn’t publish any pictures, though,” he added with some disappointment. “You guys must’ve been on the scene, though. What was it like? I’m picturin’ the back room of a butcher shop, only messier.”

The detectives declined to indulge Dutch’s lurid curiosity. “I suppose you’re going to tell us you had nothing to do with it,” Brown predicted.

“Oh, no, I did it,” Dutch claimed cheerfully. “Yeah, me and my band of Injun braves went in and scalped ‘em.” This drew chuckles from Dutch’s associates. “Me and my posse of deli clerks armed with meat cleavers!”

“We have information that you were spotted at the Tavish Building around 8:45 last night,” Riley revealed with a narrow gaze.

“Oh really,” Dutch replied, the grin not leaving his face. “Yeah, I was there. Your little birdie say who was with me?”

Riley checked his notes unnecessarily. “One ‘Bub’ Hewlett—“

“My driver,” Dutch clarified dismissively.

“—and a woman,” the detective finished, knowing it didn’t exactly strengthen his case regarding Dutch’s involvement.

“That was Susannah,” Dutch told them. “It was a social call, you see.”

“A social call,” Brown repeated skeptically. “A little late for visiting, don’t you think?”

Dutch smirked. “Yeah, you’re right, Detective, I brought Susannah to a massacre. In fact, she helped. She’s kinda kinky that way.”

“And just why _were_ you bringing your wife to meet a rival gang leader at 8:45 on a Thursday evening?” Riley pressed.

“Hey, that’s _alleged_ gang leader,” Dutch protested with mock offense. “And alleged wife, for that matter.” The detectives waited for his explanation, but they could tell he was just going to make something up. “Well, it was really for Susannah’s benefit,” he claimed. “See, she’d never f‑‑‑‑d an Irishman before, and she wanted to give it a try. I guess that also explains why it wasn’t a very _long_ visit,” he added, gazing at Riley. The crowd was much delighted with this answer.

Brown willed his younger partner not to rise to the bait. “We also have information that your… business problems with McInnerny might have turned personal,” he hinted.

“Oh? How so?” Dutch asked, with curiosity.

“We heard McInnerny got a hold of one of your… little girls,” Riley revealed, not sure exactly what term to use. He watched the gangster’s face closely. “Wanted to trade her for a business deal.”

Dutch grinned again, but this time it was a slow, shark-like expression, faintly chilling even in the warm room. “Well,” he began slowly, “ _if_ someone f----d with my family, you can be sure I _would_ kill them, in a very horrible way.” The detectives, not to mention everyone else in the room, waited tensely for Dutch to continue. “But,” he added more lightly, “there’s plenty of witnesses to say I was home by, what, 9:15? 9:20? last night—“

“More like 9:22, boss,” offered the minion he was looking at, and Dutch rolled his eyes.

“Pardon me, 9:22,” he corrected sarcastically. “I got f‑‑‑‑n’ Big Ben over here. So if you wanna tell me how I managed to kill seventeen people, all alone, without a gun, in about half an hour—not countin’ travel time, even—I would like to know. Seriously, I would. Could be very useful.”

“You could’ve gone back later,” Riley suggested.

“Big Ben,” Dutch prompted without looking.

“Oh, Dutch was in all night,” the man responded. “I was watchin’ the door, see.” Of course, that could easily be a lie, but as long as the man stuck to his story, the detectives would never get an arrest warrant.

“But like I said, I’m really curious,” Dutch repeated, “’cause, what with the timin’ and all, seems like me and Susannah just missed gettin’ chopped up ourselves. One would like to think that whoever did the choppin’ woulda let us go first, bein’ as we was just innocent bystanders and not part of the chopper’s beef with McInnerny,” he mused philosophically to his captive audience, “but the way the world’s goin’ to h—l these days, you can’t expect that kind of respect from your common hoodlums.”

“I don’t suppose you saw anything suspicious as you were leaving, after your social call,” Brown guessed, when he was sure Dutch had finished.

“It’s the Glamery District,” Dutch reminded them. “Everything’s f‑‑‑‑n’ suspicious. You boys oughta do something about that, by the way, ‘cause I don’t feel safe walkin’ there after dark. I’m gonna get mugged one of these days. But nothing _especially_ suspicious,” he added, finally, in response to their question.

“You know any axemen, Dutch?” Riley tried instead.

“Well, _George_ ,” Dutch replied, “sure, I know some axemen. Alleged axemen. I know some people who keep all kinds of nasty tools close at hand. For their, uh, wood-workin’ hobbies, you know?” Dutch’s tone was just slightly threatening. “But do I know a _gang_ of axemen, maybe six, eight strong, who also happen to be _bulletproof_ ,” he went on sarcastically, “no, I don’t know nobody like that. If you find ‘em, give ‘em my number, though. I got some trees they can chop down.”

“So you’ve got no idea who might have done this,” Brown surmised.

Surprisingly, Dutch appeared to give this some serious thought. “Well, you know, McInnerny kinda came outta nowhere, and he didn’t make too many friends on his way up. I bet half the people on your little bulletin board got a grudge against him.” He shrugged. “But as to who _actually_ did it, and how… I’m f‑‑‑‑n’ curious about that myself.”

Remarkably, he seemed sincere. He was still lying about some things, of course, like the nature of his visit to McInnerny the night before, which was highly suspicious. But the detectives were indeed left with the all-important question of _how_ the crime was committed, exactly. Seventeen people massacred in a short time with a machine gun was plausible; but so far few if any bullet wounds had been found on the corpses, although the walls and furniture were peppered with them. Seventeen hardened thugs—identifications were still pending, but all indications were that they all belonged to McInnerny’s gang—had fought back against _something_ last night, even emptying their guns in some cases; but as yet there were no clues as to what that _something_ was. But then again, it had only been a few hours since the crime was discovered; perhaps the forensics team would yet turn up something.

In the meantime, they had plenty of other gangsters to interview.

Brown and Riley stood. “Well, thanks for your time.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dutch replied, not standing. “And don’t worry, I’ll keep an ear out for any reports of bloodthirsty Vikings marauding down Broadway. I think that’s really something the police should handle. I wouldn’t want to get mixed up in that.” The two detectives left, knowing little more than they had when they arrived.

“I found some coffee, boss!” Ritchie announced happily, appearing in the doorway with a tray. His face fell when he saw the guests had left.

“Well, bring it on in, we’ll drink it,” Dutch decided. He nodded at Bub, who shut the door again. Turning slowly in his chair to look at those assembled, Dutch moved on to the next issue. “Now what I wanna know is—how’d they know about my meeting last night?” Someone was not going to like it when Dutch found out the answer.

***

The pleasantries dispensed with—a bit more quickly this week, wonder why—the bosses settled down at the ornate table in Lucky’s office, ready to begin the meeting. “Well, before we bring up any new business,” Lucky began carefully, “I think there’s something that’s on all of our minds.” The men turned to stare at Dutch, who sat in his traditional place at the end of the table, loudly crunching his apple. “Dutch,” Lucky prompted after a moment.

The other gangster sighed with exasperation. “Well what the f—k do you put food out for if you don’t want people eatin’ it?” he snapped, indicating the bowl of apples within arm’s reach. Lucky was constantly after him for making too much noise at these gatherings.

“McInnerny,” Lucky corrected patiently.

“Oh yeah,” Dutch replied, as though the event had slipped his mind. “That was purely personal, not business. He f----d with my family and got what he deserved.”

“Did he really kidnap one of your, er, little girls?” Callabari asked with slight disbelief. Crime was getting so _uncivilized_ these days.

“Picked her right up off the street,” Dutch confirmed. “Some f‑‑‑‑n’ turncoat put up a friendly face for her. Mick b-----d probably thought it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I trust she was returned unharmed,” Lucky said politely.

“Yeah, fortunately,” Dutch agreed, “or else I woulda _really_ lost my temper.”

The other bosses glanced at each other, each thinking about what a loose cannon Dutch could be and ascribing various positive or negative aspects to that trait. Finally one of them dared voice the question they had all been thinking. “So, Dutch… _how_ did you do it?”

“Well,” Dutch shrugged, “Susannah helped.” And they could see that was all the information they were going to acquire on _that_ subject.

Lucky straightened up and moved on. “Alright. Since Dutch removed McInnerny—albeit without the approval of the Commission, but I would consider it an emergency situation, if no one objects—I assume Dutch will be taking over McInnerny’s operations.”

“McInnerny’s brother might have something to say about that,” someone warned. “He just got out of prison in Jersey last week. I heard he was gonna join up with his brother as a partner.”

“So what’s your plan, Dutch?” Lucky prompted.

The other man shrugged again. “You guys can have McInnerny’s operations,” he decided. “I don’t want any of it.”

The others stared at him. “Are you making a joke?” Lucky checked. You couldn’t tell with Dutch sometimes.

He shook his head, continuing to gnaw on his apple messily. “No, I’m serious. Like I said, it was personal, not business. I don’t wanna profit from it.”

There was a pause as the others turned to Lucky, who spent another few seconds assessing whether Dutch was just kidding them. Finally he decided he wasn’t. “Okay. We can’t leave McInnerny’s operations alone too long—either his brother or one of his lieutenants will seize power. We should attack now, while they’re confused and leaderless. Laprese, why don’t you move in on the breweries north of 57th Street…”


	4. Chapter 4

Dutch and Susannah bumped into each other in the foyer, reaching for their coats at the same time. “Where are you going?” Susannah asked with a frown.

“Commission meetin’,” Dutch replied, looking for his rubber overshoes. “Where are _you_ goin’?”

“The Indian School just called,” she reported, tossing several of Dutch’s ugly scarves aside as she looked for her own. “They’re kicking this little orphan girl out, and they said if I got down there by noon I could have her. Otherwise they’re puttin’ her on a train back to the reservation.”

“What, Indian like… an Apache or somethin’?” Dutch asked, clearly impressed with her collecting prowess.

“Well, I don’t know what tribe she comes from,” Susannah corrected. “But I talked to them _months_ ago about gettin’ a little girl, and this is the first opportunity they’ve offered.”

“Why are they kickin’ her out?” Dutch wanted to know. “She fail teepee building or somethin’?”

“Bad behavior,” she admitted reluctantly.

“J---s,” he replied, helping her into her coat. “We’ll all be scalped in the night.”

“And that is the _last_ such comment I wanna hear,” Susannah told him severely.

“But I ain’t even said ‘redskin’ yet,” Dutch protested cheekily. “You get the doll yet?”

Susannah shook her head. “No, I _just_ heard from them.”

“Hey, Joey,” Dutch said to the young man hanging about in the hall, “call the doll shop and tell ‘em to get the usual ready. I’ll pick it up around six.”

This was not quite the high-level task Joey had been hoping for. “Yes, boss,” he agreed, and Dutch smirked at his tone.

“Hey, some days you get to shoot people, some days you gotta order dolls,” he reminded his minion. He turned to Susannah, hand on the doorknob. “Okay, I’ll see you tonight.”

“Dutch,” she replied expectantly, and he looked back. “I need you to come _with_ me to the Indian School.” Shouldn’t that have been obvious?

Well, not to Dutch. “What for? Am I like the cavalry or something? Are you afraid they’ll turn you into a squaw?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Runs with Weasels, I need your _signature_ on the custody documents.”

Dutch gestured helplessly. “I got a Commission meetin’. Indian School’s all the way on the other side of town.”

Susannah gave him a hard stare. “You’re always late anyway!”

Dutch glared right back. “I am _trying_ to f‑‑‑‑n’ improve!”

She put her hands on her hips. “They won’t hand her over without the proper paperwork! By the time you get out of your meetin’ she’ll be chuggin’ out of the state. And I _want_ my little Indian girl!” Susannah punctuated this demand by stamping her foot. Unfortunately Dutch found the gesture slightly ridiculous and tried to bite back a smile, which just infuriated Susannah more.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t know what to tell you,” he admitted. “Lucky’s gettin’ pretty p‑‑‑y lately about my tardiness, you know. I already p—s him off enough as it is.”

He could see the cyclone building in Susannah’s eyes. And so could everyone else. “I’ll take care of Lucky, Dutch,” Bub offered suddenly. “He won’t even notice you’re missing.”

Dutch blinked at him. “Well _that’s_ f‑‑‑‑n’ sinister,” he commented.

Susannah didn’t question it, she just grabbed Dutch’s arm and dragged him out the door into the snow. “Come on. Thanks, Bub!”

Dutch shook his head but followed her lead. It was hard to decide whose wrath he would rather face, Lucky’s or Susannah’s.

***

“So,” Lucky purred during the opening small talk, “I hear Dutch has a new addition to his family.” He had to speak a bit loudly over the pear Dutch was crunching. “What does this make—six? Seven?”

Dutch shrugged, having lost count himself. “I’m tryin’ to put together a baseball team,” he deadpanned.

***

The phone was for Susannah. Dutch barely looked up from the Agatha Christie novel he was reading, except to admonish the girls to be a little quieter for a few minutes. They were busy stringing popcorn and cranberries to drape around the nearby Christmas tree, somehow making a sizable mess of popcorn kernels all over the living room floor—between the popcorn on the floor and the popcorn that Polly snitched, it was amazing there was any left to string. Occasionally Dutch leaned over to snag a few cranberries and pop them into his mouth, which continually amazed the girls—they had each tried eating one of the strongly-flavored berries and found them _not_ to their liking.

Susannah returned to the living room greatly excited. “Dutch! We have to go to Ellis Island.”

Dutch couldn’t imagine any reason why he would want to do such a thing. “ _Now?_ ”

“They’ve got this little girl there,” Susannah began, and he rolled his eyes. “She’s _Persian_ , Dutch! How many of those are you gonna find?”

“Well if you go to Persia, probably a lot,” he pointed out dryly. “I expect they got an excess of ‘em over there.”

Susannah did not appreciate his wit. “Well they’re gonna send this one back on the next boat if we don’t pick her up,” she informed him. “There was some mix-up with her sponsors and, I don’t know, the people who were supposed to meet her don’t even seem to be in the States anymore.” Such things were unfortunately not uncommon, what with the state of international communication these days. “She’s already been there two weeks, and she’s only seven or eight. My contact says they’re gonna send her back on tomorrow’s ship for Turkey.”

Dutch sighed, closed his book, and sat up. Susannah counted this as a victory and went to inform Claudette the night nanny of their plans. “Where’s Persia?” Dolly asked curiously.

“Look it up in the encyclopedia,” Dutch suggested, which really she should have guessed.

“Do they have Christmas in Persia?” asked Molly, as her sister went after the book.

“Well, I think they’re mostly Muslim, so no,” Dutch replied. “But there might be a few Christians. You’ll have to ask her when we come back.”

Susannah summoned him from the doorway, coat in hand. “You girls be good for Claudette, and go to bed when she tells you,” she reminded them. “We probably won’t be back ‘til late.”

The girls ran to give her a parting hug before returning to their map of the exotic lands of the Orient. “So they’re just gonna _give_ her to us?” Dutch questioned skeptically, shrugging on his coat.

“Well, bring some cash for the guard who called me,” Susannah replied. “I _think_ , if you can convince some official that you’re the little girl’s father’s business partner or something like that, they’ll hand her over. It’s more trouble to send someone back, you know.”

“Oh, well, that shouldn’t be too tough,” Dutch decided. After all, he _did_ speak Farsi.

***

Dutch walked into the courthouse with an uncomfortable glance at the armed guards wandering the ornate halls. He didn’t like strolling right into the enemy’s den. “What’s so f‑‑‑‑n’ important?” he asked Susannah irritably when he found her in the specified office on the second floor.

She wasn’t bothered by his mood. “Here, sign these,” she told him, handing him a pen and tapping a pile of papers.

“What am I signing?” he asked, as he did so. He trusted Susannah, after all. “Or do I not want to know?”

“Adoption papers,” she replied crisply. She gave a pointed stare at the bureaucrat sitting across the desk from her, and the man sighed and collected the papers for official notarization.

“Need any cash?” Dutch offered Susannah baldly. He preferred to accomplish things by bribery whenever possible.

“No, I’m fine,” she answered, watching the man work. As soon as he had finished the documents she snatched her copy back. “Thank you,” she told him, with little gratitude. Then she took Dutch’s arm and steered him out of the office. “We have to go downstairs now.”

“So who or what did we just adopt?” he asked as they headed to another location. Idle curiosity, you know.

“You remember that sushi place we liked to go to in Little Tokyo?” Susannah began.

Dutch snorted. “Is it still open? I don’t think _I’d_ wanna run a f‑‑‑‑n’ sushi joint right now.”

“The couple that owns it, the Takeis, have a daughter who lived in LA,” she went on. “Well of course she and her husband have gotten _caught_ in one of those relocation camps.” Dutch nodded. “But, they managed to send _their_ daughter, who is only seven, here to New York first. They thought her grandparents would be able to look after her. But they just got a letter from the government telling them to hand over the girl for internment!” Susannah was clearly outraged. “She’s _seven_! And a natural-born American citizen! These government f----rs are out of their minds.”

“But somehow us adopting her makes it okay?” Dutch questioned.

“So I’m told,” Susannah agreed. “Adoption by US citizens, of a child under age fourteen, when the adopters have no Japanese ancestry. It’s a clause in the fine print.”

Dutch shook his head. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he hedged. “The way this f‑‑‑‑n’ government’s goin’, I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to snatch her out of her f‑‑‑‑n’ bed one night. I don’t wanna see you get attached to her if she’s gonna get taken.”

“She _won’t_ get taken,” Susannah asserted fiercely. “I’ll take her out of the country if I have to.” Clearly she was _already_ attached.

“Well, aren’t her folks gonna want her back when they get out?” Dutch tried.

“They don’t know how long that will be,” Susannah reminded him. “And they keep thinking about the camps in Europe. It’s not such a stretch to think they won’t _ever_ get out. They want to know she’s safe.”

Dutch sighed. “Alright. Where do we pick her up? At the sushi joint?”

Susannah rolled her eyes. “No. Here.”

“Are you f‑‑‑‑n’ kiddin’ me?” Dutch asked. They were standing in front of the door marked ‘Juvenile Delinquency Center.’ “They put her in _Juvie_?”

“This world is goin’ to h—l, Dutch,” Susannah sighed, shaking her head.

He smiled a little and rubbed her arm comfortingly. “It’ll get better.”

“By whose standards?” she asked cynically, opening the door.

The room was loud with the sounds of protesting youth, mouthing off to the glowering guards, insisting upon their innocence, crying. Dutch’s appearance set off a slew of whispers as the young miscreants recognized him from the newspapers.

“Hey, Dutch!” called one bold teenage boy. “You need a runner? I could be a good runner for you!”

Dutch gave the scrawny lad a once-over as he and Susannah approached the main desk. “How long you in for?”

“A month!”

“That’s not too bad,” Dutch decided. “Look me up when you get out. That goes for all of you,” he added to the room at large. “Got a lot of newspapers that need delivered.”

“Sign here, dear,” Susannah prodded him, having begun the paperwork.

A female guard with a face like a Hun appeared and opened the gate separating the office from the holding area. A small girl, wide-eyed and frightened, stood behind it.

“I feel a lot safer knowin’ you guys got master criminals like her under close f‑‑‑‑n’ surveillance,” Dutch commented acidly while Susannah spoke softly to the little girl.

“Just doing my job,” muttered the officer on duty.

“Yeah, that’s what them Nazi soldiers is sayin’,” Dutch countered. “Grow some f‑‑‑‑n’ b—ls and tell your boss where to shove this kinda job.”

“And then I’d pay the mortgage--?” the guard questioned rhetorically.

Dutch shrugged. “I got openings.” The officer blinked and may, for a fraction of a second, have been thinking it over.

“Okay, I should get her home,” Susannah decided, holding the little girl’s hand protectively.

“Hey, come here, sweetie,” Dutch said, scooping her up in his arms. “You speak English, right? Well don’t you worry about anything, alright?”

“That a Jap, Dutch?” called the same bold young man as they headed towards the door. He sounded rather confused.

“Red and yellow, black and white, long as they bring in the green, kid,” Dutch replied off-hand.

“I told the Takeis she could visit them often,” Susannah added as they descended the courthouse stairs, “but she’s not supposed to stay overnight very long or she might get taken anyway.”

“We better take _her_ to _them_ ,” Dutch agreed. “They’ll probably get their a-ses beat if they come into our neighborhood.” Susannah elbowed him and gave him a warning look—she didn’t want the girl to be any _more_ upset.

Ritchie had pulled Dutch’s car up near Susannah’s and Dutch stopped near the open window. “Hey, look what I got,” he boasted, displaying the girl to Ritchie and Bub. “Little Jap girls is on sale today.” He set her down on the sidewalk. “You go on with Susannah, alright? I gotta go back to work. I’ll see you at home later, okay?” he added to Susannah. The little girl trotted safely to her side and Dutch climbed back into his own car. “F‑‑‑‑n’ internment camps,” he muttered. “Between camps and the atom bomb, humanity is not lookin’ too f‑‑‑‑n’ stellar right now.”

“What’s an atom bomb?” Ritchie asked in confusion.

“Never mind,” Dutch told him. “Back to the office.”

***

“You think five hundred bucks is a good price for a kid?” Dutch asked Bub speculatively. The older man glanced up with a look that suggested he had no answer to that question. “I wanna show people I’m serious. And I want a quality kid. But I don’t want it to be so high people are stealin’ ‘em or sellin’ off kids they really like to pay the rent.”

“How many kids are you looking for?” Bub asked tolerantly. Someone else might have considered it in poor taste to converse with a colored man about buying people, but then again that person probably wouldn’t have been wanting to buy them in the first place. And Dutch had pretty poor taste in almost everything.

“Well, I definitely want one of them Dutch Jew girls,” he replied thoughtfully. “I didn’t bring the whole f‑‑‑‑n’ load over just outta the goodness of my heart, you know.”

Quite often Bub _didn’t_ know, actually; Dutch had so many quirks and contradictions it was hard to guess his true motive for _anything_. Had he felt compassion for the Jews of the Netherlands who had fled in advance of the Nazi occupation, being of such stock himself? (Hence his nickname.) Had he seen them as desperate people he could take advantage of, as cheap labor in his factories, while merely _appearing_ to be compassionate? Or was he really just trying to fulfill Susannah’s desire for a rainbow collection of adoptive daughters—an eccentricity which at this point had nearly eclipsed Dutch’s criminal reputation? Somehow, it was probably all three.

“But I thought I could just put the word out that I want anything unusual,” Dutch went on. “Kind of a standin’ order. Susannah still wants one from India, and a full-blood African, and maybe a mix from Brazil.”

“I would lower it,” Bub suggested sagely. “Five hundred dollars might be too tempting for some people.”

Dutch nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Two hundred, then. I might be willing to negotiate, for a good one.” He gnawed on the end of his pencil for a moment before he started scribbling. “Two hundred dollars cash for a girl, ages 5 to 10 years, in good condition. Exotic appearance and parentage, i.e., African, Mongoloid, Oriental, Spanish-type. Must have documented legal custody—paperwork’s gettin’ f‑‑‑‑n’ stringent these days, you know—and be willing/able to transfer full rights to buyer. Medical and legal counsel may be sought.” Dutch finished the notice and read it over. “Do you think this sounds perverted?”

“Yes,” Bub answered honestly, and Dutch laughed.

“Well, what can I do to make it sound _less_ perverted?”

“Toss it out, get a kid through a reputable orphanage,” Bub offered.

Dutch shook his head. “Most of the kids in the orphanages is white, and Susannah don’t want a little white girl ‘cause she thinks the others might feel bad. And anyway, they’re not gonna be _exotic_ like she wants.”

“The Dutch girl won’t be white?”

“Well, I’m gonna specify a real Jewish-lookin’ one,” Dutch explained. “So I expect she’ll be _whitest_ , but people will still look at her and know she ain’t no Anglo-Saxon Protestant.”

***

There was not an overwhelming response to Dutch’s unofficially-distributed notice, which seemed to surprise and disappoint him. Apparently he had pictured a line of “exotic” little girls stretching from the front door around the block, all laid out for Susannah to choose from. She was quite peeved at him. “Two hundred dollars? I thought you were gonna do _five_!” she protested. “Five would’ve gotten some people in here!”

“Well I’m not gonna f‑‑‑‑n’ change it _now_ ,” Dutch told her. “People will think I’m desperate. Probably they already think I’m some kinda sicko.”

“For _five_ hundred dollars, they wouldn’t have thought anything,” she retorted.

“Go play with the ones you got,” Dutch suggested. “Go buy ‘em some new dresses or somethin’.”

“I will,” Susannah assured him, in a tone that threatened his bank account. “But you had _better_ get me a new one soon!”

***

Dutch was in his office with several of his lieutenants when Joey knocked on the door. “Hey, Dutch, there’s a guy here to see you.”

“Joey, how many f‑‑‑‑n’ times I gotta tell you to be _more f‑‑‑‑n’ specific_?” Dutch snapped with irritation. “Am I gonna have to cut off one of your fingers to remind you or what?”

“No, boss. Sorry, boss,” Joey apologized. “He has a kid with him, and he says he come about the two hundred bucks.”

Dutch’s demeanor improved considerably. “Well it’s about f‑‑‑‑n’ time! Show him in.” Quickly he laid his gun aside, just in case he ended up keeping her. He didn’t want to give in too easily, though—if she wasn’t what Susannah wanted he wasn’t going to take her.

The pair that entered looked very promising, though—no need to guess what their cultural heritage was. “Mr. Schultz,” the man greeted. He looked around at the tough men in the room and wasn’t as nervous as a lot of people would be—although not a big guy he looked like he could handle himself in a fight. Someone who was used to clawing his way out of holes. “I’m Hans Volker. I work in your brewing factory on Fifth Street.”

“You come over from Amsterdam?” Dutch asked conversationally, and the man nodded.

“Me and my wife and children,” he agreed. “I work in a glass factory there, ‘til the f‑‑‑‑n’ Nazis came.”

Dutch didn’t really care about that. “What’s this?” he prompted, trying to get a better look at the girl who was hiding behind Volker’s back.

He dragged her out roughly. “My daughter, Anna,” he explained, with little warmth. The girl clutched a china-headed doll and a small satchel—all ready to go, should Dutch want her.

“Well, she’s definitely a Jew,” he said, which he meant as a good thing. “But what’s wrong with her? Why are you gettin’ rid of her?”

Volker shrugged as if he didn’t need much of a reason. “She’s lazy,” he complained. “Always got her nose in a book, when there’s work to be done.”

“F‑‑‑‑n’ readers,” Dutch deadpanned. The man must not have noticed how the house was stuffed with books.

Volker took it as agreement. “And the government says I have to send her to school! What good is f‑‑‑‑n’ school for a girl? A couple years was good enough for her mother.”

“Well, I certainly don’t send mine to no f‑‑‑‑n’ school,” Dutch replied. Which was true; Susannah taught the girls at home—what decent school would take them? “Don’t matter if she’s lazy, though, there ain’t a lot of heavy liftin’ to do around here.”

“Didn’t think so,” Volker answered with an unpleasant smile. “She’s a very good girl other than that. But there’s no room in my house for laziness! Everyone must pull their own weight.”

“Well, two hundred bucks would be pretty weighty,” Dutch observed. “How old is she?”

“Nine,” the man told him. “I’ve got her papers here…”

“Tell Dixie to come in here,” Dutch ordered, and his portly attorney was soon brought in to examine the legal documents. Dutch kept an eye on the little girl, who stroked her doll’s molded hair obsessively and shot darting glances around the room, like an animal looking for a corner to hide in.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Dixie pronounced. “Shall I prepare the contract, Dutch?”

“Yeah, go ahead, I’ll take her,” he decided. “Come here, sweetie.”

The little girl was understandably reluctant, and she resisted her father’s not-so-gentle urgings to leave his side. “She don’t speak English?” Dutch asked, hearing them exchange words in a foreign tongue.

“A little,” Volker replied. “But how much will you need her to talk, huh? I said, _move_!” He gave the girl a smack that sent her sprawling to the floor, and everyone else in the room tensed, staring at Dutch in apprehension. Whatever brutality he inflicted upon adults, they all knew how careful he was with his own girls.

But Dutch didn’t move a muscle in his chair, except to glance over at his lawyer. “You got that ready yet?”

“Sign here, and here,” Dixie told the oblivious Volker, quickly getting out of the way should his client make a leap for the man’s throat.

“Two hundred bucks,” Dutch announced, and the cash appeared for Volker’s eager hands as soon as he’d signed.

The immigrant reached out to shake Dutch’s hand. “Appreciate it, Mr. Schultz,” he said cheerfully. “If you like little boys, too, I’ve got a son who—“ He broke off when he realized Dutch wasn’t planning to shake his hand in return.

“Get the f—k out of my house,” Dutch ordered in a cold, steely tone. “And don’t let me see your f‑‑‑‑n’ face ever again.”

The man glanced around at the others who were now gazing menacingly at him, always eager for a chance to rough up someone who had offended the boss, and he wasted no time heading for the door.

Dutch turned to the little girl who was cowering on the floor. “Come here, sweetie,” he cajoled again. “Come here, I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Come on.” Slowly the girl rose, obviously frightened but seeing no alternative, not with a roomful of intimidating faces watching her with great interest. “That’s it, come here. That’s right. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Come on.” At last Dutch got her in his grip. “Go get Susannah,” he told one of his men. “Come on. It’s okay. This your little dolly? Yeah, she’s a little chipped, ain’t she? Don’t worry, sweetie, we can get her all patched up, just like new. Yeah, you’re gonna like it here. It’s gonna be a lot f‑‑‑‑n’ better than the place you come from, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, isn’t she perfect!” Susannah exclaimed upon seeing her.

“This is Susannah,” Dutch told the little girl, who seemed much relieved to find a feminine figure at last. “Go on. Good girl.”

“Come on, let’s get you all cleaned up and find some clothes for you,” Susannah tempted, leading her away. The girl looked back over her shoulder at Dutch, who waved.

“Well, that was exciting,” he commented dryly, breaking the tension that had developed in the room. Several people now felt they could safely breathe again. “So where were we?”

***

Callabari was the first to spot him. “Hey, is that Dutch?”

But Laprese was the first to notice something was amiss. “What the f—k is he carrying?”

“Oh my G-d. He didn’t!”

“I think he did.”

“What the f—k is wrong with him?”

Lucky stayed out of the speculation, waiting until Dutch was close enough to speak to himself. “Dutch,” he greeted. “What’s this?” Although really, it was perfectly obvious.

With a screech of metal on concrete Dutch pulled out the empty chair at the table and sat down, balancing the little girl on his lap. Bub sat discreetly at a nearby table, alone, knowing he wouldn’t be welcomed at the table with the other bodyguards. “Isn’t she cute?” Dutch enthused, bouncing the little girl on his knee. “I just got her last night. Susannah wanted me to bring her back a little colored girl from Cuba. I think she’s part Indian or something.” He grabbed the menu and squinted at it, turned it upside down, then back the right way. “How do you say ‘steak and eggs’ in Spanish?”

Callabari helpfully pointed it out to him on the list. “Where did you get her from?” asked someone curiously, since it appeared they were all just going to have to accept this idea, gauche though it may be. Try telling Dutch that gangsters didn’t hang around with little girls in pink sundresses.

“Some f----r from off the street,” Dutch shrugged. “Can you believe, he thought I was some kind of f‑‑‑‑n’ sicko or whatever—askin’ me how many hours I wanted her for and s—t like that. I mean, what kinda f‑‑‑‑n’ perverts they got in this country, huh?”

“Yes, it makes so much more sense that you’d want to bring her back as a souvenir,” Lucky commented dryly. He was the only one who dared speak to Dutch that way, possibly because he was _so_ dry Dutch didn’t even seem to get the rebuke.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” was all Dutch responded with, as he tried to get the waitress to understand what he wanted. “What do you want, huh?” he asked the little girl, indicating the menu. “Go on, uh, _manger_.”

“That’s French,” Lucky pointed out carefully.

“Whatever,” Dutch shrugged. “She got the idea. I think Susannah’s really gonna like her. She’s got that puffy hair she likes so much. And she’s got some weird sorta Indian nose.”

“How charming,” Lucky replied dryly. Well, _he_ liked his little dogs, after all, which some people probably snickered at behind _his_ back. Not that this really excused Dutch in any way, but then again, _nothing_ could excuse Dutch. You just kind of had to accept him as he was. “We were just talking about the deal our friend Victor suggested yesterday,” he added in a slightly pointed tone.

Dutch rolled his eyes and attempted to saw through his steak, which was not easy with the little girl on his lap. “Oh, yeah, sorry I’m late,” he replied, in a not very sorry tone. “I was tryin’ to put these little ribbons in her hair. Took me twenty f‑‑‑‑n’ minutes. So who’s in? Are we fallin’ for this spic chatter or what?”

“Well, it would help matters considerably if you didn’t call Victor and his associates ‘spics’ every five minutes,” Lucky suggested delicately.

“I got other words I can use,” Dutch told him, in a tone that implied those other words were worse. “Hey, uh, _fraulein_ ,” he added, snapping his fingers as the waitress came by. “What’s Spanish for ‘beer’?”

“ _Cerveza_ ,” Callabari supplied, which Dutch repeated, in slightly mangled form, to the waitress.

“Well, I think it sounds like a good deal,” Laprese commented, trying to get the conversation back on track. “No government prosecution, tax breaks, just a few miles from the US…”

“And you can’t beat the climate,” someone else added cheerfully.

“People are gonna wanna travel more, after the war,” another gangster opined. “I think they’re gonna wanna come here, nice, tropical paradise, and it could _our_ hotels they stay at, _our_ night clubs they come to.”

The gangsters—or ‘businessmen,’ as they were known to a friendly government—seemed to be largely of the same positive opinion. Meanwhile, Dutch appeared to be more interested in trying to get the little girl on his lap to drink her milk—‘el milko,’ in his vocabulary—but Lucky knew he was paying close attention. “What do you think, Dutch?”

“—come on, it’s yummy, it’s just like _cerveza_ but, um, white,” Dutch told the little girl, who stubbornly buttoned her lip against the glass he held in front of her. He glanced up at the sound of his name. “Hmm? Oh. Yeah, you got about fifteen years before this country goes straight to h—l,” he declared with characteristic confidence. And characteristic lack of facts to back up his declaration. “But you might as well invest for the mid-range term, I guess. Probably want some family-oriented resorts, though. Gonna be a big baby boom after the war, with the economy goin’ up and all the GIs returnin’. Maybe somethin’ built around cartoons. Like Bugs Bunny. I bet you like Bugs Bunny, don’t you?” he asked the little girl. “You know, Bugs Bunny really likes milk. _Signore_ Bugs el Bunnio likes el milko.”

“What’s a baby _boom_?” asked Laprese.

“Sounds kinda violent.”

“Do you think the economy’s really gonna go up?”

“A _resort_ built around a _cartoon_?”

“Who’s Bugs Bunny?”

Dutch took exception the last remark. “Don’t you f‑‑‑‑n’ go to the movies?” he asked in disgust. “Bugs Bunny’s the new Mickey Mouse. Personally I think he’s way f‑‑‑‑n’ funnier, but Susannah still likes the mouse better.”

“What happens after fifteen years?” Lucky asked curiously, knowing he probably wouldn’t get a straight answer.

Indeed, Dutch just made a noise and gesture like a crashing airplane. “Got a feelin’.” Some of the others at the table dared to scoff, but Lucky had been around long enough to see that many of Dutch’s “feelings” about the future were eerily accurate.

Suddenly the little girl became agitated, chattering in Spanish. “What?” asked Dutch with annoyance. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you gotta go to the bathroom.” She pointed beyond the confines of the table and Dutch looked up over Lucky’s shoulder. “Well, f—k,” he commented in surprise, and the others turned to see a rather shady-looking local hovering nearby. “This f----r’s got bigger b—ls than I thought.” Dutch glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Bub had noticed the fellow and was keeping an eye on him.

“Friend of yours?” Lucky suggested.

“Sick f—k I got the kid from,” Dutch replied. “No, I’m not gonna give you back to him,” he assured the upset little girl. “I told you, I’m gonna take you home to _America_ and _Susannah_ and all the other little girls.” He stood, setting the girl back down in his chair. “Now, you stay right here. I’ll be right back.” He glanced around the table full of gangsters. “You’ll be fine.”

“Dutch, try not to make a mess,” Lucky advised. “Remember, we’re guests here.”

Dutch gave him a shark-like grin. “Don’t worry, I won’t make no mess. Apparently we just had a little, um, misunderstanding. I’ll get it cleared up.”


	5. Chapter 5

~November, 1945

It was a nice night, a shade on the cool side but not unpleasantly so, especially for early November, and Dutch and Susannah were strolling home, discussing the movie they’d just seen. With ‘discussing’ being code for ‘arguing.’

“—fantastic, really f‑‑‑‑n’ funny—“

“It was _not_ funny, it was scary—“

“Not funny? How ‘bout when that guy turns to us and says, ‘I’ve got it!’ and the ton of stone falls on him? That was f‑‑‑‑n’ hilarious!”

“I shouldn’t have let you drag me to it. You and your obsession with Agatha Christie—“

“I wouldn’t call it an _obsession_ , more like respectful admiration. That dame knows how to f‑‑‑‑n’ kill a guy!”

“Well, I’m glad we didn’t take the girls. It was _definitely_ not appropriate for them.”

“Yeah, it’s nice to have a little ‘date night’ now and then… How ‘bout you and me spend the night at a fancy hotel, huh? Make a racket, break everything, and get room service in the morning?”

“Oh, Dutch, you’re such a romantic. No.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because we’re expected at home, that’s why.”

“Well here’s a nice alleyway. Let’s tell Marty to cool his heels down the block for ten minutes.”

“Get off. Honestly, you are like a f‑‑‑‑n’ barnyard animal sometimes.”

“Well funny movies do that to me.”

“Are we gonna start this again? It was _not_ —“

“It _was_ —“

The squeal of tires in the otherwise quiet street interrupted them, and they turned to see a car, headlights off, barrel around the corner towards them. In an instant Dutch understood what it was; in another instant he had assessed the surroundings and noted there was nowhere to run to. He pulled out his gun, for what little good it would do, and pushed Susannah behind him—for what little good _that_ would do, either.

Marty was closer to the car and took the first bullets, even as he sent some back from his pistol and possibly even hit a guy. But a moment later Dutch felt the bullets ripping through his flesh, knocking him back into Susannah and the wall, the constant spray making his body jerk like a puppet whose master was having a fit. It didn’t hurt, really, but it was very disconcerting and frustrating, as he would’ve liked to get a _few_ shots off himself. But they were turning the full force of their machine guns on him and he couldn’t make his arm still enough to fire.

For a moment the bullets stopped and Dutch fell unceremoniously to the sidewalk, a bloody heap, aware of everything going on but largely unable to respond. Well, unable by certain rules, which he chose to play by. The night wasn’t silent for long, however; the gunfire started again momentarily, and Susannah dropped to the ground behind Dutch. It was kind of unfair of them to kill Susannah; but then again, a machine gun drive-by was a crude method of execution. Besides, Susannah was really the more dangerous of the pair anyway.

Finally the attackers, satisfied with the carnage they had wrought, sped off into the night. Awkwardly Dutch rolled over to face Susannah. “Guess this is it, sweetheart,” he coughed, with a smirk. “See you in the next one.” He started to close his eyes.

“No, I don’t wanna go!” Susannah protested, shaking his arm.

Dutch, or perhaps Wayland was the more accurate name right now, opened his eyes again in annoyance. “Um, I think it’s too late at this point,” he observed. “We’re kinda dead.”

“We can’t leave the girls!” she insisted. “They’re too young. Who will take care of them? They’ll be split up and sent to orphanages!”

Wayland rolled his eyes. “You really should’ve thought of that before you took them in,” he pointed out. “This wasn’t exactly an unexpected ending.”

“Please, Wayland?” Susannah asked. “I’ll stay, even if _you_ don’t.”

He sighed. “Okay, fine. But if we’re gonna stay, let’s not just lie here in a heap. Let’s go give those f----rs the scare of their lives.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

The two of them struggled to their feet—their clothes were ragged with bullet holes and soaked in blood, and even _they_ had to find such an assault slightly detrimental to their sense of balance.

“Where are they?” Susannah asked, taking the gun Dutch had retrieved from the unfortunate Marty.

He cocked his head to the side, listening. “Three blocks north.”

From the attackers’ point of view, they’d had a successful evening—they’d eliminated the ruthless Dutch Schultz as well as his wife or mistress or whatever she was, who was rumored to be a dangerous b---h in her own right, and they’d only probably lost one guy, whom nobody really liked or knew anyway. Sure, the s—t was gonna come down soon, as soon as Schultz’s people made a counter-attack, but without the mad dog at the helm, their boss was confident a reasonable deal could be worked out that was beneficial all around.

Someone else was probably really running the show anyway, maybe that n----r who had been a Harlem gang leader, or one of them kike lieutenants—hopefully not the woman, though, since _she_ was dead, too—at least that was the rumor, because Dutch was such a nutcase supposedly, always talking about walking on the moon and something called ‘cell phones’… Maybe he’d picked something up from one of those chorus girls he used to bang all the time, and it was rotting his brain. Except some people said he’d been crazy before that, too.

But in any case, whoever stepped up now was probably the one who’d really been making all the decisions behind the scenes, with Dutch as his showboating front man—at least, that was what their boss thought. So there’d be a few obligatory strikes back, and then the real brains of the operation would realize it was better to cut a deal, and they’d all be the richer for it. It was a great plan.

Which didn’t take into account the vengeful specter of Dutch Schultz appearing in the road before them, pale and bloody with a cold smile on his face. He let them stare, still plowing forward, then raised his gun and started shooting with inhuman accuracy.

The car swerved and skidded in the street, nearly overturning. The men inside didn’t bother trying to figure out what they were seeing, they just fired back—but their bullets all seemed to miss, or perhaps pass right through him. The shooters didn’t live long enough to decide which it was.

One young man made a break for it, figuring it wasn’t worth his life to unravel this impossible mystery; he was already bleeding badly and he limped as he ran from the car, away from the man who should be dead. Dutch let him go. The place was getting too crowded, anyway, police sirens wailing ever closer.

He stumbled back to the store where Susannah was resting in a pool of blood. That suit was ruined, no doubt about it. Maybe the floor, too, but Dutch would pay for that, and the window he’d broken to let them in so she could call home. Bub ought to be here any minute, hopefully before the police.

He dropped down beside her on the floor. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“This suit is ruined,” she complained. “This is gonna be a huge mess,” she added with a sigh, not referring to the suit.

“Well, it’s what you wanted,” Dutch reminded her.

“I know, I know. I just hope the girls won’t be too upset by everything,” she worried.

“Nah, they’re tough,” Dutch assured her. “They’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna go to sleep for a while,” he decided, stretching out on the floor. “No doctors, right?”

“No doctors,” Susannah agreed.

Well of course there were doctors. Or rather, _one_ doctor, Dr. Barnes, the colored physician who treated the girls. Bub had hustled him in despite Susannah’s bizarre declaration—he wouldn’t let them be taken to a hospital, but he couldn’t just _not_ bring in a doctor. It felt wrong, somehow. Although really the whole thing was wrong, because they shouldn’t have been alive to give such orders in the first place.

But alive they were. Dr. Barnes had pulled seventeen bullets from Dutch and eleven from Susannah; he said there were more, but digging them out would do more harm than good. There wasn’t anything else he could do but bind up their wounds and check on them every day, and be continually amazed that they were still breathing as they lay there in bed, apparently in comas.

The stories Bub was hearing from the streets were equally unbelievable. Marty was dead, shot up like Dutch and Susannah had been; but he was found three blocks away from the store they had called from. And the store front hadn’t been damaged, like they had run there and _then_ been shot. In fact there was blood on the sidewalk away from Marty’s body—like a second person or two had been injured there. But then how did the action shift three blocks? Who had killed the men in the car?

Their police contact said a young man linked to the shooting had been picked up a few blocks away, babbling about ghosts; but he’d lost a lot of blood and they were waiting for him to recover sufficiently for a proper interrogation. Meanwhile Lucky was seeing to the retribution; as long as he didn’t make any deals with O’Malley’s gang Bub wasn’t going to protest. A lot of people thought Lucky was the brains behind Dutch’s operation anyway; Dutch would just be sorry he’d missed all the fun. Bub wanted him to wake up just so he could ask him what the h—l was going on.

Four days later, when the girls were teetering between normalcy and hysteria as they waited for a change, Bessie came rushing back down the stairs just moments after she’d gone up to check on their comatose patients. She signaled to Bub frantically and he hurried to follow her.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Dolly demanded, starting to join them.

“Stay here,” Bub ordered, in the tone she knew better than to cross.

Bessie had left the bedroom door open and Bub saw immediately what had started her. Dutch was still out cold in the large bed, unchanged since Bub had seen him last. But Susannah—was gone. Well, not gone exactly—there was a splashing from the bathroom and a light shined under the door.

“She’s in there!” Bessie told him, hushed and awed. “She’s taking a bath! She dropped the bandages on the floor, and she’s just got bruises all over her!”

Bub rapped sharply on the bathroom door. “Miss Susannah?” he asked, unsure of what reply to expect.

“Can’t I take a f----n’ bath in peace around here?” said a familiar voice, and Bub couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

“I’d like Bessie to stay with you, Miss Susannah,” Bub called back. “Could Miss Dolly come up and see you?”

“Well, just let me get out,” Susannah decided, “and get dressed. I guess there’ll be time for baths later.”

There shouldn’t be time for anything. But you could never be sure with Dutch and Susannah.


	6. Chapter 6

~1960

“Don’t step in that gum,” Dutch warned the little girl, steering her away from the offending item on the sidewalk. “Your mom’ll kill me if you get your new shoes dirty.”

“Why is there gum on the sidewalk, Grandpa?” Donna asked brightly.

“ ‘Cause someone dropped it there, dummy,” Sandra told her smartly.

“Don’t call your sister a dummy,” Dutch chastised, tugging both girls along. “Don’t make faces. If you’re gonna be unpleasant we’re gonna go back home with _no_ ice cream.”

Whines of protest and promises of good behavior met this threat, so Dutch continued down the sidewalk with the two little girls. Trailing behind them were two impassive men in nice suits whose watchful gazes scanned the sidewalk, street, and stores that passed by. They were professional bodyguards, like Elvis had, not ambitious young thugs; ambitious young thugs didn’t want to gather around a semi-retired gangster who hung out with his grandchildren, even though Dutch felt he had a lot of mentoring prowess the young could benefit from.

But that was okay; professional bodyguards were legit, and Susannah wanted him to move more into the legit world as they got older. _Appeared_ to get older, that is—they had to remember to move more slowly and complain about aches and pains these days, but of course in reality they were as healthy as ever. Susannah detested the wrinkles and graying hair, but Dutch felt his gave him a certain dignity and class. “Like lipstick on a f‑‑‑‑n’ pig,” Susannah had snorted at that.

“Okay, here we go, who wants ice cream?” Dutch announced as they approached the store.

“I do! I do!” Donna reminded him.

Sandra, however, tugged on his hand, stopping him at the doorway. “Grandpa, we can’t go in there.” She pointed to the prominent sign in the window, which read WHITES ONLY.

“Huh. Ignore it,” Dutch decided, opening the door to the cool, cheerful shop. “Only when you’re with me, though.” He helped the girls up onto the stools at the counter as the bodyguards fanned out to strategic positions in the store. These professionals lacked that personal touch you’d get from a fella like Ritchie, who would have bellied up to the bar and had some ice cream himself. Of course, these guys were also a lot smarter than Ritchie, which was a plus as far as bodyguards went. “Here, have a menu,” Dutch told the girls. “Help your sister. Pete!” he exclaimed as an older man came hurrying from the back. “What the f—k is up with that sign? It’s f‑‑‑‑n’ offensive.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Schultz,” Pete replied quickly. “Hello there, girls. You just ignore it—“

“I will!”

“—it’s nothing personal,” Pete tried to explain.

Dutch snorted. “Yeah, there ain’t nothin’ f‑‑‑‑n’ personal about _skin color_.”

“Oh, your girls are so well-behaved,” Pete went on, with the distracted air of someone who had spent far too much time worrying about this problem, “and I used to get some nice couples from the park on Sundays, but I finally had to put up the sign to keep out these young hoodlums!” Dutch looked interested. “Oh, it was terrible, every night they just loiter, don’t buy anything, scare the other customers away—one of these days they’re going to rob me, I know it. So I put up the sign, and now if any wander in I just tell them to beat it right away.”

Dutch could understand this situation. “Who’s your collectors? Ain’t they comin’ around at the right time? That’s the kinda thing they should be dealin’ with.”

Pete rocked back on his heels. “Oh, well, Mr. Schultz, I don’t want to complain, you see, I don’t want to make waves,” he hedged, “but I don’t see the collectors around much these days. I mean, first of the month, of course, but not after that…”

Dutch frowned. “How long has this been goin’ on? You gotta tell me about s—t like this so’s I can fix it.”

“Oh, well, Mr. Schultz, I don’t want to bother you,” Pete insisted. “I know you’re tryin’ to be retired and all. Nothing’s the same anymore, anyway.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Dutch muttered. “F‑‑‑‑n’ Fratelli. You know, this younger generation ain’t got no respect for the rules and traditions we used to have. It’s all about f‑‑‑‑n’ cash now. Flashy cars and casinos and all that.” Pete nodded in agreement. “Well, don’t worry, I’m gonna get it straightened out,” Dutch promised. He was only _semi_ -retired, after all. “Now, what kinda ice cream you girls want?”


End file.
